


Are you Afraid of the Spotlight

by Midnigtartist



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, M/M, Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Theater AU, alex is literally the most unobservant person ever, bottom jefferson of sure, they're both dicks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-01 18:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 74,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10196219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnigtartist/pseuds/Midnigtartist
Summary: Alexander's abrasive personality makes him ill equipped to be an actor, however, he thoroughly enjoys his position as stage manager. It's a noble job to have. At least, he thought so before he was assigned to basically babysit the ever arrogant Thomas Jefferson. Now, he's not sure if he can handle his spiraling social life and keep the show afloat without someone getting seriously hurt.





	1. Seriously-Break Your Legs

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to be bringing this fic to you guys! It's been a long time in the making and think its really coming along well. Not gonna lie though, this was absolutely inspired by a post from tumblr. It was only meant to be a little drabble at first but things got out of hand as usual, and now this is the longest fic I've written to date! Most of the stuff in here is based off my own theater experiences lmao  
> Anyway, HUGE thanks as always to my wonderful and talented beta readers: Ham-for-Ham, Exadorlion, and Clebimebi!  
> Leave a comment telling me what you thought!

With one tremendous push the staple sinks into the cork board with a satisfying   _thump_ and Alexander takes a step back to admire his handy work, thumbs hooking into his belt loops. Beside him, Peggy Schuyler lets out a low, slow whistle.

“The posters look great ‘Lex.” she says, brushing a lock of long carmel hair behind her ear.

Alexander scowls. “Don’t call me ‘Lex’, it sounds too much like Lexy and that’s a bitch name.” he snaps

Peggy rolls her eyes. “Now you’ve gone and offended every Lexy on the planet, good job, asshole.” then she throws her arms around his shoulders. “But seriously Ham, these are freaking amazing, I’m glad you make them for every show, they look so professional.”

Hamilton sweeps his gaze back over the glossy poster. Some key google searches and a sleepless night spent in photoshop have produced a poster that looks as if he’d pulled it right from the side of the cinema downtown. It’s perfect for announcing auditions for the new musical the King’s College theater program is putting on. Some obscure piece written by a freshman that had caught Alexander’s attention, it looked promising so he’d decided to give it  a go. Regardless, auditions start tomorrow, so he’s in a bit of a pinch as the head stage manager to get all the posters up before the end of the day.

“Thanks for helping me with these, Peggs,” Hamilton says “I really do appreciate it.”

Peggy just beams up at him. “Anything for my favorite guy with a headset!” she presses a quick chaste kiss to his cheek then unwinds her arms from around his neck, bending down to scoop up a good portion of the posters they’ve left on the floor.

She balances the stiff papers in one arm and takes a stapler in her other hand.

“I’ll take the quad, you wanna finish up this hall?” she ask, thumb jabbed behind her towards the door.

Alexander nods, snatching up the rest of the posters for himself. “Sounds good”

Peggy gives him her brightest, goofiest smile, then turns and skips towards the exit. Hamilton only watches her go for moment before turning back to inspect the poster he’s just hung, wanting to make sure it’s straight. He doesn’t catch the sharp clip of fine dress shoes echoing down the hall until he can feel a presence looming over him and it’s far too late to escape.

“I’ve never heard of this play before, where’d you find this one Hamilton?” a voice practically purrs into his ear.

Everything in Alexander tenses at the voice, the hair along his arms and the back of his neck rising like on a startled cat. He whips around, suddenly trapped between the announcement board and a leering Thomas Jefferson, clad in gaudy plum colored vest and speckled tie. He’s far better dressed than any college kid has the right to be, and that only fuels Alexander’s rage. All five feet and three inches of him, swaddled in a size too big Les Mis shirt ready to boil over. As if he doesn’t see this asshole enough in class as it is. Sharp tongued, arrogant, and unfairly attractive, Jefferson has been a thorn in Alexander side for nearly three years.

“What do you want, Jefferson?” he spits the name out like it’s left a foul taste in his mouth. Bitter poison.

Jefferson aches his brow tauntingly. “Why can’t you open with a ‘hello’ one of these times? Change it up a bit. Though, I’m flattered that you’re always so concerned with what I’m doing.”

Hamilton, not amused by his answer, continues to glare holes into Jefferson head, back pressed into the wall to create the illusion of space between the two of them. Why the fuck does Jefferson feel the need to stand so close? It must be some sort of power play.

Jefferson sighs. “I was heading back to my apartment, but then I caught sight of this interesting little poster.”

In response Alexander huffs, a dramatic sound that passes between his lips. “Did you want me to move so you could read it, jackass?”

“No, no, I can read it perfectly fine over your head, short stack.” the taller man smirks.

“Fuck off.” Hamilton growls. He might be shorter than Jefferson, but he’s not that small. No, it’s just that everyone at this college is freakishly tall.    
“I was thinking of maybe auditioning for this one.” Jefferson continues, like he hadn’t hear Alexander.

The comment  makes his breath falter. “What?” Hamilton hisses, watching with mild horror as Jefferson’s expression warps into one of wicked glee.

“This musical, I’m thinking of auditioning for it.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “Yeah okay, have you ever acted before?” he shoots  back condescendingly .

Jefferson shakes his head. “No, but it can’t be that hard can it?”

To this Alexander chuckles softly under his breath, meeting the other man’s prudent gaze with his own glare. It must be easy to look down on everyone when you’re a fucking giant.

“I can’t believe what an arrogant douchebag you are some times, but please, by all means, come and audition tomorrow. Booing you off the stage will be the highlight of my day.”

At this Jefferson smile seems to falter, but it’s such a tiny motion it wouldn’t surprise Hamilton if he’d imagined it, just to make himself feel better.

“You’ll be at the auditions?” the virginian asks, voice passive.  
“Yeah, I’m stage manager, I sit in on all the auditions. Now, if you’ll excuse me-” Alexander tightens his hold on the posters, slowly sliding from his grasp. “I have a few dozen more of these to hang, if you’d kindly  fucking move”

Jefferson takes a step back, the sharp edge having returned to his dark eyes, hands held up in mock submission. “Sorry to have gotten in the way.” he mutters, in no way sounding sorry, just taunting.

Hamilton rolls his eyes, elbowing his way past Jefferson

“yeah right.” he mutters under his breath.

The slick posters are slipping from his hands, threatening to fall at any moment. He tries to adjust his grip on them, tries to hoist them up higher in his arms, but the desperate jerking motion he makes in a vain attempt to get  a better hold causes one poster to slip free, the  others following soon after in a cascade of colorful paper.

Alexander swears harshly under his breath, dropping to his knees to gather the up the posters now decorating the linoleum. Embarrassment and rage burn bright red in his ears and neck as Jefferson’s laughter echos down the hall. He pointedly doesn’t look over at him, even when the click of his overly polished, probably real leather shoes stops beside him, busying himself instead with  gathering the posters.

“God , you’re mess” Jefferson says on a heavy sigh.

The heat rises in Alexander’s cheeks. He whips his head up to skewer the other man with his eyes. “Eat ass, Jefferson!”

Jefferson merely chuckles. “If you’re trying to proposition me, I’m not interested. Messy, scrawny and exhausted isn’t my type.” While Hamilton is still choking on his tongue, he bends down and snatches the poster he’s holding out of his hands. “See you tomorrow Hamilton”

With one last biting smile, Jefferson straightens, folds the poster in  half, and starts off down the hall, leaving Alexander flustered and kneeling among the ones still scattered over the floor.

He watches the tuft of tightly coiled curls slink away and round a corner. “Ffffffff-” the door slams shut a moment later with a hollow, metal clang. “FUCKER!”

  
  


Auditions don’t start until two, which means Alexander doesn’t really have to be at the theater until one thirty, but he wakes up at  six thirty anyway, groggily trying to find his phone that somehow snuck it’s way between the multitude of sheets on his bed. An hour is spent checking his emails, scrolling through social media and replying to a text he missed last night. But eventually, laying flat on his stomach, a position that had been so comfortable the night before, is starting to make his legs cramp and his neck ache. Hamilton rolls over to his back, brushing away the stray hair that catches in his mouth. People keep telling him to cut it and sometimes he’s inclined to agree with them. It’s long and gets everywhere, usually it’s greasy from lack of washing and hangs limp and straight around his ovular face unless he ties it up. It’s a real pain in the ass and way more trouble than it’s worth sometimes  but he’s never had it any other way. It reminds him of home, of Nevis and his mother, the only keepsake he has from either, to cut it would be a betrayal. He runs a hand lightly though it, fingers catching on tangles as he smooths it back out of his eyes, kicking off his blankets as he goes.

A grayish light spills in from outside, the late autumn sun not having fully risen yet as Alexander swings his legs over the edge of his bed, arms stretched high above him until he hears his shoulders pop satisfyingly. He spares a glance over at his roommate, but Burr is still huddled under his sheets, back to Hamilton.

Quietly as he can, Alexander grabs his discarded grey hoodie off the floor, slipping it on over his head  to fend off the bite of the cold morning air as he makes his way out of the room He heads to the bathroom, showers, bushes his teeth, and tries to tidy up his beard a bit because, honestly, it's starting to get out of hand. When he steps back out, he finds Laurens curled up on the sofa, having migrated from his adjoining room to the suite’s communal space. Hamilton gives him a sleepy ‘morning’ which John returned with an absent minded bob of his head, before turn back to stare blearily at his phone.

Alexander trudges back to his room, but just as he puts his hand on the knob, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out to see who the hell is texting him at seven forty five on Saturday. Turns out it’s Peggy.

[Emergency! We didn’t print out enough audition forms for this afternoon! Can you make like 30 more??? Thanks boi!]

Sighing, Hamilton pushes his way back into the dim room, sliding his phone back into his pocket. There’s no need to reply, Peggy will see the read notification and know that he’s on top of it, as usual.

Burr is still sleeping, still curled in a ball as close to the wall as possible. Alexander reaches into the mini fridge beneath his bed and grabs a bottle of 5 hour energy from inside, hardly making a dent in his supply of the brightly colored bottles. He pops the cap, then sits himself down on the edge of Burr’s bed, taking a sip.

“Hey-” he pokes his sleeping roomates side.  “Hey, hey Burr. Are you awake yet?”

Muffled sounds of disgruntlement sound from beneath the blankets.

Hamilton pokes him again, a quick jab into his side that makes him jolt. “Buuuuuurr, are you up? I need to ask you something, get up.”

Burr turns onto his side, an arm snaking out from under the covers to bat away his hand. “- _Fuck_ Alexander-” he spits goggigly.

Alexander clambers further onto his bed, tucking his legs beneath him. “Oh good, you’re up” he chirps.

“What could you possibly need at this ungodly hour of the morning?” Burr  mutters, glowering at Hamilton.

“Well I was kinda hoping you’d let me borrow some of your print credits, cause I’m all out.” Alexander asks sheepishly, fiddling with the frayed plastic cover of the bottle in his hand.

Burr groans, grabs the pillow from under his head and covers his face with it. “Yes, fine, so long as you’ll leave me in peace until noon.” is his muffled reply.

Alexander beams, springing off of Burr’s mattress with a bounce that makes the old metal coils squeal and the other man tightens his grip on the pillow. “Sure thing! See you at auditions.”

 

The autotrim as already buzzing with excitement when he gets there later that afternoon.  A decent size crowd of hopeful actors and actresses have gathered. A low hum fills the air as people rehearse their audition pieces, pacing up and down the aisles, gesturing wildly to themselves, every face contorted in a different emotion. Nervousness crackles through the air, setting Alexander's heart aflutter. A smile works its way onto his face as he adjusts the strap of his beaten and battered brown leather satchel on his shoulder.

He adores theater.

The expression and the emotion of drama, how boldly the actors let down their walls and become someone else. It’s like magic, a metamorphosis that unfold on the black paneled stage floor. He loves having the opportunity to be part of it.

It usually shocks people when they find out he’s stage manager. Everyone knows he’s got a mouth on him and the breath support to carry his voice across a lecture hall, they figure he would be center stage, soaking up the literal spotlight, instead of making his own in the middle of Humanities class. But it’s those same traits that make him ill equipped to be an actor. He’s abrasive and opinionated, loud and impulsive and he doesn’t take criticism well. Washington had told him once that his passionate prose were better suited for the speech team then the drama troupe, but Alexander loves theater far too much. So he found himself a position as a techie, handling the props. If he couldn’t perform in the shows, at least he could still be apart of them, help to produce them. He got so good at what he does that Washington decided to make him the permanent head stage manager, turns out being a boosy control freak is the unspoken pre requisites for the job. And he wouldn’t trade it away for anything, he has a shot at making something great out of every script he holds, to  bring worlds to life with every piece that crosses his stage, to tell stories, even if working behind the scenes is a silent, thankless job.

“Alexander!” Someone shouts and he turns in the direction of the feminine lilt.

Angelica Schuyler is waving him over enthusiastically, pale pink cardigan slipping off her shoulder. Beside her is her dark haired sister, Eliza, nervously picking at the script in her hands. Alexander weaves his way through the milling crowd to them.

“I was wonder where you were Angie!” He says brightly, greeting the eldest of the sisters with a quick kiss to the cheek.

She laughs soft, dark eyes alight as he pulls back. “You know I wouldn’t miss auditions, especially when my little sister is going to perform.”

“Really?” Alexander turns his attention towards Eliza, who seems to sink a little into her blouse, a faint blush rising in her pale cheeks.

He’s meet Eliza on a few occasions, usually after shows when their group goes out to eat, but doesn’t see her much outside of that. She’s not as involved as her two sister are in the theater program. Where Angelica takes center stage and draws the crowd in around her with her powerful performances and Peggy flits about the lighting booth, waiting for her more subtle cues, Eliza tends to man the concessions stand. Hamilton has never known her to grab for attention, she’s seems more then happy just to support  her sisters in their endeavors.

“Yes, well- Angelica convinced me...” Eliza mutters, fiddling with a lock of hair. Shy, pretty, and far out of Alexander’s league. “She thought that I might be a nice fit for the lead so I decided to give it a shot.”

Angelica wraps an arm around her sister’s narrow shoulders in almost a motherly way. “You’re not just a nice fit for the part, you’re perfect for it. Alexander tell her” she tosses a pointed look his way.

Alexander beams. “I’m sure she’s going to be wonderful! I find it hard to believe that any Schuyler sister could be without talent.” carefully he takes Eliza’s hand in his own. “Especially not one as lovely as yourself.” tentatively, he brushes his lips across her knuckles, watching the blush that blooms over her cheeks with delight.

It’s Anglieca that snaches her hand away. “Alright buddy, don’t you have some freshmen you could harass?”

“He can harass me any day!” comes a singsong voice from behind them and suddenly Alexander finds himself embraced by John Laurens. The man is grinning from ear to ear, a smile so bright he’s convinced it could compel the lame to walk.

“Jooooohn” Alexander whines. “Not in public”

Laurens smacks his shoulder playfully.

“You two are the closest set of ex’s I’ve ever met.” Angelica comments. “It’s actually quite disturbing how well you get  along”

Laurens simply shrugs letting his grip around Hamilton fall. “I can’t fault him for being a terrible lover forever.”

“Oh right asshole” He slugs John hard in his right arm, making him wince and laugh. “You broke up with me so you could screw a football player.”

Laurens rubs the tender spot on his arm. “I don’t see how that helps your case at all.” he replies cheekily

Alexander opens his mouth to respond, just as the heavy side door opens and closes with a tremendous thud that echoes off the auditoriums high ceiling. The chatter in the room petters off into nothing more than a soft buzzing as all eyes turn in the direction of the noise.

Washington cuts quite figure, a man who seems too tall and too large in presence to be contained by the space. His aura is commanding, his strides long as he makes his way to stand at the apron of of the stage. Sometimes Alexander wishes he could have gotten the chance to see the man perform, in the days of his youth, it must have been a sight to behold. With his hands tucked behind his back, facing the young performers, Washington raises his voice to address the crowd.

“I’d like for us to being in a few moments, so if everyone could find a seat.” he says, voice carrying clearly all the way to the back of the theater.

Quickly people begin shuffling into the seats, squeezing in beside friends and whispering excitedly to one another. Alexander bids his own friends a hurried farewell before making his way to the front of the theater, situating himself at Washington right. The taller man offers him a gentle smile, he’s always held a soft spot for Alexander, more so than his other unofficial favorites.

“How are you doing, son” he says under the babble of the crowd, dropping his authoritative persona for a moment.

Hamilton smiles wearily. “About as well as I can be, sir” he response.

Burr slides in beside him a moment later, taking his spot at the front to the right of Alexander. “And how are you Mr Washington?” he asked pleasantly.

Washington simply nods in his direction, the slightest indication of acknowledgement, before turning his attention back out towards the eagerly awaiting masses. Burr huffs and Alexander chuckles. Burr tries so hard, only to always come up short.

Before he can sneak in teasing comment about this, Washington is clearing his throat to speak, and the room falls silent as a result. Never has one man commanded such respect over a group of rowdy college kids.

“I would like to start by welcoming you all here today on this Saturday and thank you for your punctuality, I’m sure there are other places you’d rather be right now than listening to an old theater major ramble.” A short burst of polite laughter. “However it is you diligence that I find the most admirable, it’s a quality seek in my performers..”

Hamilton starts to turn out, having heard Washington’s welcome speech over a dozen times in the three years he’s been doing this, instead, he trails his  gaze lazily through the seats in search of familiar faces. Laurens seems to have found Mulligan, and the two sit near the back, sunken down low in their chairs with their feet propped up on the seat in front of them as they play on their phones. The three Schyler sisters all sit in a row in the dead center. Peggy scratching at a bit of paper in her note book, curled up in the uncomfortable seats with her shoes already kicked off. Angelica is on her left, listening attentively as Washington continues to talking about the theater and what they do. Eliza seems to still be practicing her piece, muttering frantically to herself as she stares at her script. Alexander even spies Lafayette at the far end of the center row and he thinks it odd that he’s not sitting by Laurens and Mulligan. Perhaps  there simply wasn’t a seat.

‘Now, before we begin, for how many of you is this your first time performing, not only here, but ever?” Washington asks.

A few  hands go up here and there and Hamilton searches their faces, sure that a few of them will be joining his crew of stagehands. Eliza is among them, raising a timid hand as she peeks up from her script. Then his gaze snagged on another familiar face. Jefferson. With his tightly curled black coils framing his face, hand raises lazily, wearing a black and gray paisley button up and deep mauve tie. A peeling _‘hello my name is-”_ tag is slapped on his chest just like all the other performers, the number fourteen written on it in black sharpie. Only he could look so utter relaxed reclining in one of those stiff auditorium chairs. He catches Alexander staring and grins sharply at him, an unpleasant smirk that stretches over his full lips. Hamilton feels like he might be sick, the bitter taste of bile rising in the back of his throat.

Though Jefferson had warned him of his plan, his being here still takes Alexander off guard. He hadn’t thought he’d really show up for auditions. He almost feels off kilter. Seeing Jefferson in his Comp class is one thing, he’s expecting it, he know that he’s there, two rows back and three seats to his right, ready interject his stupid opinions wherever he’s given the opportunity. Even when he runs into him on some campus sidewalk it’s different, less jarring. But this, Jefferson showing up in the one place Alexander would have never thought he'd set foot, throws him. This is Hamilton’s sanctuary, the place he can come to forget about his other obligations for a while. It’s the place he goes to forget about his stressors and now, one of his biggest ones is situated comfortably in the fifth row. It’s offensive, really, so Alexander glares hard at him, hoping to pierce him with the strength of his gaze alone. But his pointed look has no effect on Jefferson. He doesn’t pale or shy away, in fact, the fucker winks at him instead. Annoyance burns hot in Alexander’s ears. The few people that had noticed his expression sour turn and twist in their seats to try and figure out what he’s glowering at, and when they spot Jefferson a low whisper of voices ripples through the seats. Waiting for the tension to break. But suddenly there’ a large, stern hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, halting him before he’s even begun to really boil.

“Now, I’d like to introduce the newcomers to my staff.” Washington says out to the onlookers. Then he turns his measured gaze towards him. “Go on, son”

So Alexander takes a deep, calming breath through his nose and tears his eyes away from Jefferson’s devilish grin. “Yeah, uh, I’m Alexander- Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton. I’m the head stage manager and-”

“Co- stage manager” Burr interjects, giving Alexander side eyes. “I’m the other. Aaron Burr” he inclined his head slightly towards the crowd.

Hamilton rolls his eyes aggressively. “Yeah, Burr handles stage left and I watch stage right- it's the better side of the stage”

Laurens and Mulligan clap loudly from the back, cheering obnoxiously and making Alexander grin. Washington silences them quickly with a pointed look and the two dissolve into a fit of stifled snickers.

Mulligan holds his hand lofty above him. “Hercules Mulligan, don’t make me say it twice. I’m the make up slash costume guy.” he says with an easy smile, then lowers his hand.

Washington sighs “Peggy, why don’t you go next.”

Peggy attention is ripped from her notebook at the sound of her name, blinking owlishly up at Washington as she replays what he’s just said, little gears grinding away. Then it clicks and she bounces up from her seat. “Right! Hey everyone, I’m Peggy! Lighting and sound designer!” she chirps, then plops herself back in her seat.

Washington nods approvingly. “Unfortunately our choreographer couldn’t make it today, he’ll be here once rehearsals start. However, there’s one more person I’d like you to meet.”   He tips his head towards Lafayette, who rises gracefully from his seat, charming smile painted over his lips.

“Yes, c’est moi ‘e is referring to. Bonjour!” he greets with a little flourish of his hand. “Please call my Lafayette, for my given name is much too ‘ard to, as you say, wrap one's mind all the way around.”

“Lafayette will be taking over the position of assistant director for this show, and we’re very glad to have him,” Washington adds

Laf nods curtly before making his way to join them at the front of the stage, not so gently squeezing himself in between Burr and Hamilton. The former grunts as an elbow digs into his side but Lafayette pays him no mind as he flings an arm around Alexander’s shoulders.

“Why didn’t you tell us you get promoted?” Alexander asks him in a hush tone.

The taller man merely beams down at him. “It was all very unexpected, yes?” But after the whole thing with Lee, monsieur général thought to promote me! I wanted it to be a surprise.” he chirps.

“That’s wonderful, my friend.” he responds. But a sickly, jealous part of Hamilton stirs in his chest. After all, Washington had not thought to come him first as a replacement AD. He quickly suffocates the thought, he’s happy for Lafayette, really, he is, and he just needs to leave it at that. Especially since Washington is calling for his attention, saying his name.

“Alex if you could please hand out the forms.” he leads, prompting Hamilton to retrieve the papers he’d printed this morning from his bag. Simple information forms for all the actors to fill out, just so Alexander can keep a record and more easily manage everyone's contacts.

He unwinds himself skillfully from Lafayette's hold and starts distributing stacks of forms down the aisles, every step that brings him closer to Jefferson brings his blood to a rolling boil, to the point where he’s practically steaming over when he reaches the handsome virginian. He thrust a stack of forms into his hand, meeting the other man’s challenging gaze.

“I see you can behave yourself, when Washington’s around.” Jefferson whispers to him as he takes the papers in hand.

A deep sound, similar to a growl bubbles up in the back of Hamilton’s throat. “I can’t wait to see you choke up there.” he hisses. And with that he moves to continue distributing the forms.

Once everyone has one, Washington dismisses the actors to the lobby and sends Burr with them, to keep things organized and keep the auditions moving smoothly. The rest of Washington’s staff finds seats in the audience, Alexander smooshes between Peggy and Laf, and waits for the first hopeful audition to take center stage.

First is a young boy Hamilton has never seen before so he assumes he’s a freshman. His performance is rough but his voice is quite nice and Alexander jots down that he might have some potential. Next is Anglica. She steps into the middle of the stage like she owns the whole damn theater and starts reciting a powerful selection from The Phantom of the Oprah, speaking passionately to an invisible partner. Then she moves directly into her song, her lovely, mature voice ringing clearly through the whole space. Another flawless performance. She curtsies as she takes her leave, and right after her Eliza steps in. She doesn’t seem to have the same commanding presence as her sister, when she takes the stage she doesn’t immediately fill the space, instead the spotlight seems to make her grow smaller. Hamilton almost feels bad for her, she looks so meek under the harsh stage lights, pale skin contrasting hard with her long black hair, he wants to shield her from their emotionless stares. She mutters that she’ll be performing  a selection from the musical I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change, then takes a deep, steadying breath, tension slowly starting to ebb from her body. Once she begins her piece she becomes a completely different person. The character she portrays is sweet and awkward, not unlike herself, but Hamilton can tell by the way she holds herself, that Eliza has found her confidence, she swells into her part. She doesn’t stutter, she doesn’t falter and when it comes time for her to sing, he knows she’s gotten the part. The melody seems to put her at ease, she navigates the expanse of the stage with grace and delicate lightness that entrances Alexander. When she finishes, the last chords of the song slowly fading into the empty seats she mumbles a hurried thank you and rushes from the stage. It takes a great deal of effort for Hamilton to uphold his professional air and not give her a one man's standing ovation.

Peggy leans over and taps him sharply on the shoulder. “She’s amazing, isn’t she?” she whispers excitedly to him.

“Absolutely stunning.” he nods.

The next couple of auditions go by in a blur, at least three girls sing Defying Gravity, a song as good as it is overused, but for the most part the performances are uninspired. There are a few that catch his eye, and Hamilton is sure to jot down the numbers and names of those who left a lasting impression on his mind. He’s just finished up a note on how the man who had sang I Believe from the Book of Mormon might be a nice fit when a honey laced voice bids them good afternoon. His eyes dart upward.

Poised in the center of the stage, Jefferson seems to soak up the spotlight around him like a black hole, the lights, the sounds, even the air itself seems unable to escape the vacuum he creates.  The pull of him so strong that it seems to consume everything else, sucking up Alexander’s attention, dragging him in. He sweeps his curls out of his face and introduces his piece, not a excerpt from a play but rather a prose from Edgar Allen Poe. And then he starts speaking.

A shudder ripples unbidden down Alexander’s spine. The singularity that is Jefferson has gripped him tight like a vice and drawn him close, with as much a chance of escaping his dramatic pull as a wayward asteroid. His stance is strong, movements succinct, every step and every gesture executed with calculated ease and the treble of his voice fills the space, echoing up in the rafters. It’s an intoxicating sound, the way it dips and swells and moves is enthralling. The first word to jump to the front of Hamilton’s mind is incredible. Marvelous- Breathtaking. He’s commanding, but not in the same way as Angelica. He takes the respect and wide eyed adoration of his audience, instead of earning it, much like how he is in real life. Demanding instead of winning. But for him it works. It applies to when he sings as well. An interesting sound but by no means unpleasant. The next word that comes to mind is disgusting. Who thought to take the most dislikeable, rude, egotistical asshole and make him not only smart, not only beautiful, but give him such raw talent as well. Who the fuck thought that was okay? Who in Jefferson’s uppity, inbred southern lineage made a crossroads deal, who sold their soul for this most brilliant child? It’s unfair, it’s perverse. Jefferson has no right to be in Alexander’s theater. What with all his talent and whatnot.

He doesn’t ever realise Jefferson has finished until he bows, a full on bow, bending at the waist with his hands clasped behind his back and everything. He gives one last winning grin before stepping off the stage, sure to catch Hamilton’s gaze with know look sparkling behind his eyes as he goes. The bite of the pen in his hand reminds Hamilton that he hadn’t written any notes on the performance.

Quickly he scribbles out. “Pretentious prick.” grunts indignantly, then viciously slashes the phrase out, the sharp tip of his pen ripping the lined paper though the next two sheets. A soft noise of distress sounds from the back of his throat.

“‘aving some issues expressing your thoughts, mon cher? ‘Ow very unlike you, does Thomas fluster you so?” Lafayette teases under his breath.

Alexander’s teeth grind together painfully “Shut up” he mutters back.

The frenchman chuckles. “Affection is a fickle thing, no?”

“Who could ever like that someone like him.” Hamilton huffs. “He’s a complete tool.”

Laf rolls his eyes. “Oui, I suppose Thomas is a bit sharp at ‘is edges, but you can not deny ‘is looks.”

Hamilton draws his lips tightly over his teeth. He really can’t, but no matter how good looking Jefferson is, it doesn’t make him any less insufferable. “If you think he’s so wonderful, why don’t you ask him out” he snaps

_“He is quite the handsome man-”_ Laf says dreamily, slipping seamlessly into french, Parisian accent thick. “ _But one must favor the sweetness of the wildflowers over the rushing wind every so often”_

Alexander follows his friend’s starry eyed gaze over his shoulder, towards the clueless Peggy, and corners of his mouth twitch upwards slightly.

_“You would be cute together.”_ he tells him in his own gentle french.

The next performer takes the stage, putting a halt in their whispered conversation.

Hamilton finds it hard to focus on the rest of the auditions, lazily tuning in and out at odd intervals, but staying present enough to hastily write down some thoughts. They don’t finish until nearly eight in the evening. All the actors and actresses go home and only Washington and his staff are left in the auditorium, everyone but Burr having kicked off their shoes, limbs pretlzed in different ways to better cram themselves into the seats. They discuss, while all the performances are fresh in their minds, who  fits best in which part, which performers would work well together and who to call back tomorrow. Hamilton tries to follow the conversation but, as much as he’d like to deny it, his mind keeps slipping back to Jefferson. He’s torn, too biased to make an honest judgment on his ability.The critical part of him is still awestruck, that someone with no prior training could perform in such a captivating way, with such dynamic energy. The other part of him, the angry, bitter little part of him that remembers every debate, every argument, every horrid comment passed between them is rolling with disgust, bemoaning the waste of talent on someone so unabashedly arrogant and nasty. Hamilton would never be able to work with him. The two can hardly get through an hour and a half long lecture with one another. Months of rehearsals where they’re forced to be in a room together everyday, for hours at a time might actually result in murder, one of them bound to snap and slit the others throat with a pair of wire cutters. But he’s got so much potential. It’d almost be a waste if-

“Alex” Washington says firmly.

The sound of his name pulls Hamilton from his brooding, head snapping up in the director's attention. All eyes are on him, probably wondering why he’s not said anything yet, when he’s usually the one who dominates a conversation.

Washington fixes him with a look, one more so of concern then annoyance. “Son, we were discussing who to cast as our female lead. Now There were quite a few-”

“Eliza” he blurts automatically. “Eliza’s our lead.”

Peggy giggles beside him as Washington shuffles his notes around.

“Yes, she definitely up for consideration, however so is Angelica. She’s just as talented, and she’s been with the troupe much longer. She’s a seasoned veteran when it comes to these things.” he states.

“With all do respect, sir-” Hamilton interjects. “Angelica would of course play the role well, but Eliza brings new life to the part. She has a brightness to her that fits the role much better. Plus, she’ll bring a fresh new face to an unaclaimed show. All in all, she would be perfect- sir.”

Washington gives him a weary smile. “When you put it like that, I suppose it’s hard to argue against your points. Eliza will be our female lead.”

“A wise decision si-” Alexander tries, but his words are drowned out by the rest of Washington’s statement.

“- and Mr. Jefferson will play the male lead.”

Hamilton’s mouth dries, tongue suddenly turning heavy and slow.He swallows thickly, then again. Trying to wrap his mind around what he just heard. Jefferson? The lead? _The lead?_ How- when had they come to that decision?

“I think we have our thoughts is order for tomorrow, you can all head home for the night.” Washington says, slowly rising from his seat.

Everyone else follows his lead, standing  and stretching. Alexander watches it all happen in slow motion, mind still sloshing to understand, because surely Washington had just misspoken.

“I’m sorry- _but what?_ ” he gasps out. Hamilton springs from his chair and bounds down the aisle after the older man. “Sir you can’t possible be serious!”

Washington turns to face him, and eyebrow raised in question. “What couldn’t I be serious about?”

“Jefferson!” he rages, gesturing his arms wildly. “Sir, it can’t be true that you’re giving him the lead. He has no experience! He has no idea what he’s doing. He’s an ass! He’ll ruin the whole show. Sir-”

“I don’t approve of your language or your reasonings not to give him the part.” Washington seems to grow in height as he fixes Alexander with a look, much like a father scolding his child. With arms crossed and shoulders squared, commanding the space with the sheer crushing force of his, almost regal, presence. “Thomas is better suited for the role then anyone else who came in today. He has vast amounts of untapped potential that I believe will flourish on the stage. He has no less experience than Ms. Schuyler, who, I might remind you, you were quite eager to promote. If his lack of knowledge about the theater truly bothers you however, then make it your priority to show him the ropes. I’m expecting you to, actually”

Alexander’s jaw goes slack, the demand knocking the air out of him more thoroughly than any punch to the stomach he’s ever taken. “But sir-!”

“Alexander” Washington warns.

Full first name. Never a good sign. Hamilton presses his lips together tightly, forcing himself to swallow down the triaid that’s  been building at the tip of his tongue. It slithers down into his stomach where it’s starts festering into a dark, gnawing pit of anxiety.

“ I expect you to take full responsibility for training Thomas, seeing as it causes you such distress. Do I make myself clear?” the taller man says sternly

Alexander hesitates to nod, but how is he suppose to deny a direct order from his director? So, instead of fighting it, he lets loose the air in his lungs and nods somberly.

“Yes, sir.” he mutters bitterly down at his shoes.

“Good” Washington nods “Now, for god’s sake Alexander, go and try to relax a little. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  



	2. Kiss Like You Mean it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jefferson is just as insurfable to work with as Alexander had feared and it's really stressing him out. Surly he's going to ruin Hamilton's show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the second chapter, I hope you all enjoy! Just a reminder that this fic updates every Thursday so I would suggest setting alarm if you're anxious for more!  
> Huge thanks as always to my beta reader- Ham-for-Ham and Exadorlion on tumblr

Call backs come and go, and once again Hamilton is struck dumb by Jefferson’s performance. Still all consuming and ravenous, easily stealing the breath from his chest in the most incredible way. Having Eliza as his opposite only seems to enhance both their performances. The void that Jefferson creates around himself only encourages Eliza to shine even brighter, and as much as it tries to devour her whole, it can not seem to take hold of her. It’s like trying to suck up a sun. Impossible. And as such, there’s no way Alexander can stand in opposition of giving them their respective roles any more than he could oppose the forming of the stars. 

Other parts fill quickly, Angelica takes a sizable part with graciousness, overflowing with pride for her little sister, more then happy to take a backseat to watch Eliza shine. As expected, a good deal of those who hadn’t received a part sign on for stage crew. Hamilton gains at least ten more eager hands to help him. Then it's time to seamlessly  transition  into the rehearsal processes. 

Bound by Washington, Alexander is forced to take Jefferson under his wing, so to speak. He really does try during that first week to teach him, but Jefferson has no interest in the information he has to offer. He tell Jefferson to get  a binder for his script first thing, but the utter asshole proceeds to simply roll it up and carry it around his his back pocket. He only ever looks at it if he’s reading off his lines. Not once has Hamilton seen him write down any sort of blocking notes in it. Unlike Alexander, who walked around with a pencil shoved in the messy bun perched atop his head, scratching down the blocking for every single character, until the margins are full of nothing but his cramped scroll. Yet, despite his lack of even the most basic common sense, Jefferson still does ridiculously well. By next Saturday he’s nearly memorized on act one, as far as Hamilton can tell, and he never misses a beat. Except for today. 

Their choreographer, George came in to do the rough blocking of the first big musical number of the show, only to be meet with disastrous results. For an hour, Alexander has sat in the back of the theater and watched the frantic blond man screech at the performers, only half of whom seem to be listening to him. Even now, they shuffle about the stage awkwardly. Jefferson, he notes with irritation,  is among the halfhearted ones, gaze cast around boredly as he follows through the motions,  not really paying attention, and still- not writing anything it his script. Alexander’s fingers twitch around his pen. 

George lets out a high pitched whine that pierces through Hamilton, even from this distance, and throws up his hands violently. “That’s it. That’s it! I give up! The stage floor isn’t the only thing your heavy feet are trampling!” he wails, flailing about in a display not unlike a temper tantrum. “All my hope and dreams have been crushed by you little monsters, I- I can’t go on like this!” he proceeded to throw himself dramatically into a chair, arm tossed over his face. “Go! Go on, rehearsal is cancelled for the day. I can’t stand anymore heartbreak!”

George’s little fits are nothing new, especially at the beginning of the season. Hamilton is sure the fact that he no longer works as big name Broadway instructor is the catalyst for his distress. A washed up, has been who had once held such respect, reduced to choreographic college performances. 

Alexander watches the actors pass looks between each other, unsure as to whether they can actually leave or not. They might as well, George won’t be in any state to teach again for a few hours. It’s Jefferson who makes the first move to leave. He sighs dramatically, eye roll and all, and strides briskly off the stage. A few people shuffle after him, taking his leave as the cue to go. Ever annoyed by Jefferson’s antics, Hamilton rises from his seat and starts stomping towards him as he emerges from the side doors, pristine leather bag hanging off one broad shoulder. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He shouts, advancing on Jefferson. He blocks the aisle best he can, arms spread wide and seething. 

The taller man’s expression chills into one of icy disdain. “You heard him Hamilton. Time to go. I personally have better things to do then loiter around this dusty theater all day.”

Rage spikes though Alexander’s chest. “Like writing in you’re blocking for once?” he hisses, taking a step into Jefferson’s personal space. The Virginiana doesn’t waver, just continues to glare down at him. 

In the back of his mind, Hamilton registers the feeling of a dozen pairs of eyes on them, registers the hushed whisper of voices. He doesn’t care, Jefferson and him get into far too many verbal, sometimes physical, confrontations for judgmental gazes to bother him anymore.  If anything, he surprised it’s taken them this long to get into a fight.

Jefferson clicks his tongue and leans against the wall to his left. “Get off my back about your stupid blocking. You don’t need to take notes it you can memorize it.” he taps his fingertips to his temple and smiles wickedly down at Alexander, feeding off his frustration like the empty pit he is. 

“You can’t memorize everything, you conceited asshole!” Hamilton shouts. His cheeks are flushing with rage. In retrospect, whether or not Jefferson writes his blocking notes down it none of his concern, but it just pisses him off so much that he can’t do what he’s told, that he has to fight him on every trivial little thing. It’s exhausting 

“You know what Jefferson, do whatever the fuck you like! I tried to help you but you’d obviously rather try to get by on pure narcissism. So do what you want. I’m not the one who’s going to look like a fool on stage when you miss a cue or a line! At the end of the day, it’ll just be you, burning up there under the spotlight! Good luck with that! I’m done! Don’t ever ask me for anything ever again!”

Out of breath, chest heaving and throat sore from screeching, Alexander turns sharply on his heel and marches away as fast as he can. Jefferson seems shocked by his outburst, and Hamilton files the look of his tight jaw and wide eyes as a win for himself. 

Peggy is waiting for him just outside the stage doors, bright yellow purse slung across her chest. She fall into pace beside him as he passes, threading an arm though his to connect them at the elbow. 

“One hell of a speech back there Hammy.” she says

Alexander huffs, not meeting her gaze as he responds. “He can do whatever the fuck he wants. I don’t even care. I don’t even care anymore!”

She soothes her free hand down his arm. “Yes you do.”

He pauses his brisk stride, realizing he’d had no real destination set. He just wanted to get as far from Jefferson as he possible could, as soon as he could. He lets out a pitiful noise, head dropping onto Peggy’s shoulder. “You’re right. He’s going to fucking ruin my show and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“That’s never going to happen, you’re way too great a stage manager to let Jefferson ruin this play.” Peggy takes his hand in her and rubs circles into the back of his wrist. “Come on, you wanna get some coffee or something.?”

Alexander nods, though it’s already past three in the afternoon, coffee will be a nice pick me up. “Coffee please.” he mutters into the crook of her shoulder. 

She laughs. Peggy has such a cute laugh. It’s not as full as Angelica’s and not as reserved as Eliza’s. When she laughs her whole face scrunched up, little crinkles around her nose, and she sorts. Her laugh always makes Hamilton smile. He let’s her lead him out of the theater. 

  
  


Fifteen minutes later the two of them are curled up in a booth at the back of starbucks. It’s warm and quiet in there, the rich smell of freshly brewing coffee fills the air, setting Alexander at ease. He loves the smell of coffee. He loves everything about the stuff. He’s probably addicted to it, but he’s never gone long enough without caffeine to test the theory. His friends often worry that he consumes dangerous levels of it, more than any human should, but how else is he suppose to get anything done? There are so few hours in the day, he can’t waste them by  being too tired, he’s got to make the most of every second he has, otherwise he’s just taking up space, being useless. 

He sips his drink, straight black coffee, because caramel and pumpkin and cinnamon and whipped cream are all just for show. John commented once that Hamilton would just gnaw on the beans if he could, and Hamilton hadn’t exactly shot him down. 

“Second one in line, wearing the dress shirt.” Peggy whispers brightly to him, then takes a sip of her own. 

Alexander redirects his attention over a the man she’s referring to.  He tall and tanned, with hair the color of burnt honey poking out from under  a navy blue knit beanie. White button up under a faded black t shirt. He’s got his head turned away from them but Alexander notes that he has a sharp jawline speckled with stubble. 

“Seven, until we see his face.” he mutters back and Peggy nods. 

It’s a pastime of theirs, rating the guys at the coffee shop. Is it juvenile? Sure, but honestly, who cares, they’re just having fun.

“O o O!” she squeaks, flapping her hand enthusiastically to the right. “Over there, at the table by the window!”

He follower her gaze to the man sitting on high, bar stool against the far window, tapping away at his computer. Dark brown hair slicked up and back, wearing a simple v neck and a pair of wire frame glasses, that sit low on his nose. 

Hamilton sighs dramatically. “Six- minus two points because his hair makes him look like a pidgey.”

Peggy snorts into her hand, making Alexander grin. “Oh my god you’re so right.”

They both dissolve into a fit of muffled giggles, fingers press over their mouths to stifle the sound. 

“Well, it’s nice to see what you get up to in your free time Hamilton.” comes measured voice. 

“Jefferson!” Alexander squeaks, completely caught off guard by his sudden appearance.

How does someone that tall manage to keep sneaking up on him so damn often?

Jefferson stands in front of their table, arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, staring impatiently at Hamilton down the bridge of his nose. 

“What do you want?” Alexander snaps. Then- “How did you even know where I’d be?”

Jefferson waves him off. “Not important. I need to talk to you.” he spares a quick, sidelong look at Peggy, who’s glaring up at him just as hard as Hamilton is. “Alone, preferably.”

“No” Hamilton retorts. “I came here to get away from you. I don’t wanna- HEY!”

Suddenly Jefferson reaches forward, snags Alexander’s wrist with his long fingers and starts dragging him from the booth. They’re outside in the early fall air before Hamilton gets a chance to protest. He snatches his hand from Jefferson’s grip, feverly rubbing the circle of skin on his wrist that tingles from the contact, forcing away the sensation.

“What the fuck, Jefferson?! You can’t just drag me whereever you want. That’s fucking assault, wait until I tel-” he rants. 

“For the love of god Hamilton, shut up, for once in your life.” Jefferson interjects. “I’m sure it’ll be painful, but you’ll live.”

Alexander huffs, tucks his arms around himself a glares up at Jefferson. That’s all they ever seem to do, glare at one another like it might make the other drop dead. Or maybe, a little voice supplies, maybe you just like staring at his face. The corners of his mouth turn down harshly at the thought. How stupid. 

After as stiff moment of silence, Hamilton finally concedes with a harsh puff of air from his nose. “Fine, you have my attention. What do you want.”

Jefferson fidgets. “I- need some- some help- with the scene we’re blocking next week” It seems to pain him to force the words out, and with good reason.

Alexander gapes up at him. “Are you seriously asking from my help?” he laughs harshly, a sharp, stinging sound. “Why the fuck did you think I’d help you?! I hate you. And you hate me? Have you forgot that that’s kinda our dynamic?” Jefferson looks tense. Hamilton sighs heavily. “Fuck off Jefferson, let me enjoy my afternoon away from you.” he turns to go back inside. Back to Peggy and the warm, richly scented air of the coffee shop, but a firm hand on his shoulder holds him back. 

“Wait” Jefferson says firmly.

Violently, Hamilton shrugs him off, rounding on him with eyes blazing. “Touch me one more time and see what happens, asshole.” he snarls.

His aggression doesn’t phase the taller man, but he makes no move to grab him again either. 

“I know you’ll help me.” he states smugly, folding his arms back over his front. 

“Yeah?” Hamilton sneers. “And why’s that?”

Jefferson smirks, lips curved in a way that implies he knows something he doesn’t “Because, if I fail, I’m not the only one who’s going to look bad. Any mistakes I make reflected badly on you, don’t they? That’s why you’ve been on my ass about the notes. You won’t be satisfied until everything in your little show is perfect, because you don’t have what it takes to be on stage.”

Alexander inhales sharply, the words striking deep. He’s no fool he knows Jefferson is trying to bait him.

The virginian crooks his eyebrow expectantly. “Well?”

And he takes it. . 

“Fine!” he throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine I’ll help. Just text when you’re free and we’ll work out a time later-”

Jefferson shakes his head, curls bobbing around his face. “Not later. Right now”

Alexander stares at him incredulously. “I’m  _ doing  _ something right now.”

“Right, because rating men on an arbitrary numerical scale is such a world changing use of you time.” Jefferson retorts. “Get over yourself Hamilton, we both know you have nothing better to do right now. You practically live, sleep, and breath theater.”

He glowers up at Jefferson. The guy’s not wrong, but Alexander would rather drop deep right here on the sidewalk then admit that to him. So instead he says. “I hope you realize that this is a terrible inconvenience on my part.” and once again makes to re enter the coffee shop.

Behind him, he can hear Jefferson mutter. “I’m sure” which only fuels his anger further.

It’s crazy of him to agree to help Jefferson, the fact that he’s doing this at all makes his skin crawl unpleasantly. But, it’s to improve the show, he justifies.  Taking this hour to run lines or whatever will help him in the long run. He tries to focus on that fact as he approaches Peggy, still sitting shocked at their table. 

She lightly grips the sleeve of his flannel as he reaches over to grab his bag.  She looks concerned, hard eyes roving his face. “What was that all about? What’s going on?”

Sighing, Hamilton slings his bag over his shoulder. “I have to go Pegs. Jefferson needs help, or something, with some scene. Vague asshole.” he mutters bitterly. Then he gives her a soft smile. “We’ll do this another time, promise.”

She looks no more convinced, nibbling at her lower lip as she watches him snatch up his coffee, and walk out once more. Jefferson is waiting impatiently from him just outside the door. Hamilton takes off down the sidewalk without him, he has to step a bit quicker to catch up.    
“Come on, I don’t want this to take all day.” Alexander calls over his shoulder. 

They get to the theater in eight minutes flat. Everyone is gone and everything is already locked up so Hamilton pulls out his massive, loud ass key ring and shuffles through it until he finds the little silver one that opens the door. Beside him, Jefferson taps his foot impatiently, arms crossed and expression sour. It seems he wants to be here about as much as Alexander does. The latch clicks and Hamilton pushes inside. 

It’s dark and quiet in the empty theater. The lone beam of light from the open door casts eerie shadows over the backs of the chairs, the curtains, the floors, the walls. Everything bathed in muted gray tones. The two men step inside, the door falling shut behind them with a heavy, hollow clang that reverberates through the empty space in a way that makes Alexander’s hair stand on end. Even though it’s the middle of the day outside, the theater feels like it’s locked in eternal midnight, especially when the slamming door plunges them into total darkness. Quickly Hamilton turns on the flashlight on his phone, sending out a feeble ray of cold light to lead them through the dark. 

“Follow me.” he mutters to Jefferson, unwilling to raise his voice above a whisper.

He catches the slight motion of Jefferson’s hair in his peripheral. “Right behind you.”

So they set off down the center aisle, the soles of their shoes make muffled sounds on the ancient carpet. The shadows around them swell under the harsh light of Hamilton’s phone as they pass. 

The silence of the cathedral like room rings in Alexander’s ears, and the swaying curtain reminds him of the old ghost story they would tell the freshman. About the boy who fell from the rafters and died. His eyes fall on the middle of the stage and a shiver races down his spine like a cool breeze, bringing a wave of goosebumps with it. Alexander may not be particularly religious but, like any thespian he has his superstitious leanings. The lights in scene shop do flicker sometimes. 

The sharp sound of his own shoe on the first step of the stage startles him. He drop his coffee, surprised at how loud the sound of  it is in the empty room. The plastic cup smacks hollowly on the steps, and Hamilton jumps, not anticipating the noise. Instivicily his hand flies out to grab hold of whatever’s nearest, which just happens to be the lapel of Jefferson’s jacket. Hamilton feels him jump and tense under his fingers, which in turn only makes him tighten his grip.

“- Jesusfuckinchrist” Jefferson exhails sharply. Then he smacks Alexander’s hand away. “You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack. What? Are you afraid of the dark or something?” he whispers.

“Fuck off.” Hamilton shoots back. 

They wind their way up the steps, slowly. Jefferson hovers so close that Alexander can practically feel the heat of his body and his breath on the back of his neck, and when they reach the metal stairs that lead up into the catwalks, he feels the faint tug of fingers on the back of his flannel sleeve. He doesn’t comment about it. The joints of the rafters groan in their old age, whining high and mournfully as the two men traverse them. It only takes a torturously slow minute for them to reach the lighting booth. Alexander’s fingers tremble as he hurries to unlock the door. 

The second they step inside Hamilton is sweeping his hands over the walls, feeling desperately for a light switch. His fingers snag on the blunt plastic and he eagerly flips it up, a dull orangish light bursting on above them, making him squint against the sudden brightness. Once the lights are on all the tension leaves. Alexander exhales a shaky breath of relief, taking a moment to let his heart settle. The hand falls from his sleeve, and again he makes no comment. Instead he strides over to the lighting board, and starts to fiddle with the few switches and knobs that he actually knows how to use, bringing up the stage lights down below. Jefferson joins him at the controls, letting out a low, slow whistle as he examines all the buttons and mixers. His long, slender fingers dance out to mess with some sliders, and Alexander slaps them away. 

“Don’t touch anything” he spits. “You’ll break something.”

Jefferson wrings out his fingers, glower down at Hamilton. ‘Control freak” he snaps back.

Hamilton simply grunts in response, and drags the virginian from the room by his elbow.

The walk back across the catwalks is a lot more pleasant when they’re lit, the buzzing of the lights covering up the harsh metal squeaks and squeals. 

“Hey- what’s in here?” Jefferson asks, and Alexander peers over his shoulder to see what the hell he's talking about.

Jefferson has stopped outside of a plain black door with a silver knob. The door has no markings on it, no plaque to indicate its contents, it simply connects to adjoining room made of black painted wood, shoved out of sight of the stage. 

“Oh, that’s the fuck room.” Alexander states duly, annoyed that Jefferson is getting hung up on something so trivial, wasting his time that he could be using to do other, better, non Jefferson related actives. 

The other man’s eyes go wide, round like cue balls. “Excuse me-?” he splutters.

Hamilton rolls his eyes languidly. “It’s a room- where people go to have sex. Try to keep up Jefferson.”

“I get the implications of ‘fuck room’, you little shit. Why on earth do you have one?” he retorts. 

“Awww, does it offend your sensitive southern sensibilities?” Alexander coos, delighting in the Jefferson’s cheeks darken with embarrassment. “It’s not like we just built a room specifically for actors to hook up. It’s a storage unit for old wires and filaments and crap. There’s a couple of broken furniture pieces in there too so people like to go in there and bang during down time I guess,  I don’t know.” He’s pretty sure it was Laurnes that started the whole fuck room trend, but he doesn’t have enough substantial evidence to make his case. Hamilton’s only been in there a handful of times to grab some extra light bulbs. The place always faintly reeks of sex and discarded condoms litter the floor. Very classy. 

Jefferson makes the most disgusted face, lips pulled tight in a grimace. “Gross.”

Alexander shrugs. “You’re the one who asked. Come on-” he nods over towards the stairs. “I don’t want this to take any longer than it has too.”

The two make their way back down the clanging steps in total, blissful silence, making their way from the rafters to the middle of the stage. The lights splayed up against the backdrop of the stage are a violent shade of magenta, the flitter still not having been changed out after the last show, and a single, solitary spotlight shines down on them from above. Hamilton turns to face his companion, hands planted firmly on his hips. 

“Alright- What is it you needed help with so desperately that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

The displeasure is clearly evident on Jefferson’s face, probably not happy with having his request referred to as ‘desperate’. But screw what he feels, he came to Alexander for help, so he’s going to describe it however he damn well pleases. Instead of voicing his irritation and instigating a fight between them, Jefferson keeps his mouth shut and instead flips back the top of his his satchel and pulls out his curled up script. 

Oh, how Hamilton longs to iron the pages flat again. 

He flips through a couple of pages before seeming to find what he’s looking for. He then shoves the bent pages under Alexander’s nose. Alexander takes the script with a flourish and glare and starts to read, aloud, the scene Jefferson wants to work.

“Jamie paces across the room, knocking over a chair in his distress” he reads duly. “ Jamie -desperately-  Damn it, Delilah, I didn’t mean for it to end up like this, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Delila stands suddenly looking mournful. Just explain it to me Jamie cause I don’t understand why. Jamie- isn’t it obvious? Jamie cross hurriedly to Delilah and-  Jefferson this is a kiss scene.” Hamilton dead pans. 

“I’m well aware of that Hamilton.” comes Jefferson’s dry response.

“So why not just get Eliza to run it with you? She’s your scene partner anyway, and it’s not like she bites.” he snaps back, tossing the script onto the floor.

Jefferson shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, looking at a spot just left of Hamilton. The immigrant has never seen him this flustered before, this out of his element. It strange to see the man, who usually secretes arrogance so thick it leaves a slimy trail behind him, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Tongue tied, something Alexander never thought he would live to see. 

“I-” he falters “-don’t what to run the scene with her until I know how to do it right. I don’t want to freak her out or- I don’t know.”

“How very articulate Mr. Jefferson.”  Hamilton mutters. “There’s nothing awkward about stage kissing, it’s not even really kissing. I’m sure Anglica has explained it to her already. ”

Jefferson blinks down at him, eyes vague and blank.

“You-” he begins, fixing the virginian with a look. “You do know what stage kissing is? Right?” 

A beat. Then Jefferson shakes his head slowly, no.

Hamilton slaps his palm to his forehead with more force than was probably necessary. “Oh my god, you’re utterly helpless aren’t you.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinions, I asked for you help.” Jefferson barks.

“Alright! Jesus, no need to twist your big ass hair even tighter.” Alexander says. He gestures for Jefferson to move closer. “Come here, I can’t show you what to do from the other side of the stage.”

So the taller man takes a few shuffling steps towards him. Hamilton sighs, crossing over to him in two wide strids, situating himself uncofortably in Jefferson personal space bubble. 

“Okay, so stage kissing is really simple- will it be alright if I touch you? I’m going to need to if I’m going to show you this.” Alexander asks. 

A familiar wicked grin works it’s way onto Jefferson’s face. “Why, Mr. Hamilton. At least buy me dinner first” Alexander shoots him a look as if to say,  _ are you done? _ Jefferson just shrugs. “Yes, you can put your dirty little hands on me.” 

“Unnecessary, but let's move on.” Hamilton responds. “What you’re going to do is put your thumbs over your partner's mouth and kiss there, but you have to do it in a way that makes it believable to the audience. Like this-”

Cautiously, Hamilton reaches up, straining a bit cause he’ll be damned if he has to get on tip toes for Jefferson, and cups his jaw, pressing his thumbs firmly over the other man’s lips. They’re full and warm under the pads of his fingers, and the way Alexander has them pushed into the delicate skin causes them to puff up ever so slightly. It’d be so easy for him to push his thumb past the seam of his lips like this, he muses. Slip the digit into Jefferson mouth and have him suck around it. 

Hamilton mentally shakes the thought from his head. Sure, there’s been a resonible amount of weridly sextual tesion between him and Jefferson ever since they met his sophomore year, but for the most part he’s been able to keep it under control and behave himself. He’s not a freshman anymore,  and sleeping with people whenever he gets the slightest urge has only gotten him into trouble. He’s not going to be the campus bicycle, Jefferson doesn’t get a free ride just because he smiles so pretty and corrects Alexander’s work with those long fingers of his. So he’s curb his angry lusting, putting off what he can only assume would be mindblowing hate sex to hang on to a little bit of his dignity and as a result the two of them dance around the issue. Passive and completely unproductive. Not words usually used to describe either of them. 

 

If he hold his fingers over Jefferson’s mouth a moment longer without doing anything this is going to start getting awkward but Jefferson won’t bend and Hamilton refuses to stand up on his toes. So he hauls Jefferson down forcefully and plants his lips to the backs of his thumbs. Jefferson lips may be full and spilling out from under his fingers but Alexander’s are thin, and as such the two don’t even so much as touch, but he can still get a sense for the heat of them, and the stubble against his palms shoots sparks down his arms. He pulls back nearly as soon as their mouths don’t meet and quickly drops his hands from the Virginian’s face. The motion happened so fast, Jefferson didn't really have time to react, but he does seem a little on the startled side. Did he seriously not infer that the kissing part of stage kissing would require a little face to face confrontation?

“See, simple” Alexander states, hooking his thumbs into his pockets. “So easy that even you can do it!”

Jefferson glowers at his, straighten back up to his full , towering height. “I get it.”

Alexander slaps his hands together. “Great, then show me.”  The taller man tips his head in confusion, mouth opening,  probably argue but Hamilton cuts him off on the inhale. “You asked from my help, so we’re doing this my way. The only way you’ll learn how to do it and do it right is by practicing. So come on. Show me what you got.”

“This ridiculously.” Jefferson mutters under his breath but voices no further objections. 

Tentatively he raises his hands up to Alexander’s face, gently cradling his jaw in his stupidly big, warm hands. Hamilton stands loose and malleable under his touch, making it as easy as possible for the other man to manipulate him the way he needs. One of his thumbs catches on the corner of Hamilton’s mouth, inadvertently dragging over the skin because Jefferson’s movements are clumsy and Alexander forces back a shudder. Because the pad of Jefferson’s thumb over his stubble doesn’t make his knees weak, and the way he’s looking at him, brows furrowed in concentration as he tries to place his hands just right isn’t fucking endearing in the slightest. Actually, Alexander is more concerned with way it’s taking him so long get his hands in place. It’s not like stage kissing is hard. Is Jefferson really this damn awkward, or is he just slow? Thumbs slot over his narrow lips, pressing them against his teeth so uncomfortably tight that they start to ache, and he can’t decide if it’s because Jefferson is inexperienced or just really hates Hamilton. It might just be both. Once his hands are situated on his face, Jefferson flickers his eyes up to Alexander's expectantly.  

“Just hurry up and kiss me dumbass.” Hamilton mumbles past the digits obstructing his mouth “Stop being weird”

So slowly, Jefferson lowers his head down to Alexander’s level, gently guiding his face up to press a kiss to his own thumbs. 

Jefferson smells like expensive coffee and warm vanilla. He lingers, longer than he really needs too, unsure where to look, it seems. He dark  brown eyes flicker around, up to Alexander hairline, past his left ear, for half a second he ever closes them but must think it too weird and immediately opens them again, before he’s staring into Alexander’s eyes. 

“You can let go of my face now.”

Instantly Jefferson drops his hands and leans back, giving Hamilton the room to breath. He looks, for lack of a better word, downright uncomfortable.    
“That was awful, you were awful.” Hamilton states.    
The muscles in Jefferson’s jaw tighten. “Then teach me better.” he grits out.

Alexander shakes his head. “You have to loosen up Jefferson, and not be so fucking creepy about it. Your character is desperately in love with Delilah, so show me that. Kiss me like you mean it.” the words feel strange in his mouth, wrong somehow when he says them to Jefferson. But this is theater, there’s no place for treading nicely here, it’s not the place you can throw up barriers. “Do it again. And this time, more passionate lover and less, awkward pre teen please. Cause that was just embarrassing.”

Jefferson’s whole body goes rigid from a moment, the muscles in his face tight and straining, hands curled into fist at his side. Hamilton balances his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to duck if the other man decides to throw a punch. It wouldn’t be the first time. But instead, he lets a slow breath slip past his lips, tension flowing away with it. Then he fixes Alexander with a determined glare.  

The next thing he knows, Jefferson has his face in both hands, thumbs fumbling to cover his lips as the taller man swoops down on him. He’s movements are a little too fast causing the bridges of there noses to bump momentarily, but Alexander hardly notices because Jefferson definitely took the passionate part to mind and is not kiss him with such force that his back is actually arching. He gasps because certainly this wasn’t what he was expecting. 

After a brief moment Jefferson pulls back dropping his hands from Hamilton’s face and looking rather smug.

“How was that for passionate you little gremlin?” he asks cheekily, but Alexander catches the slight uncertainty waver in his voice. Jefferson is genuinely asking how he did.

Hamilton shakes himself out. Because if that’s how Jefferson stage kisses, just imagine what it be like to actually kiss him. He not too proud to deny the fact that he’s thought about it before.

“That was better.” he says. “But still not great. Let’s try running it from the top of the scene, maybe that will help loosen you up, cause you’re still stiff as hell. You’re memorized, right?”

“Of course I am” Jefferson retorts. “Are  _ you _ memorized?”

Hamilton shrugs. “I practically know all the parts by memory, it’s kind of part of my job.” he bends to grab the script. “Now go stand at the other end of that stage, we’ll start at- your line. Damn it Delilah.”

Jefferson shakes his head like he’s the one being unconvinced by this ridiculous little impromptu rehearsal;, but Alexander knows that if the virginian had somewhere better to be he would have left by now. He stalks over to stage right, planting himself firmly just outside the ring of the spotlight, taking a deep breath and easing back his shoulders. 

Hamilton mimics him, relaxing into his character, taking up her wants and her dreams and aspirations. She want to find herself, wants to get off this damn block, wants Jamie to say what he’s really thinking especially right now. He exhales past his lips, directing his gaze on Jefferson to indicate that he’s ready. 

The taller man takes a step towards him, everything in his physicality speaking to his distress. 

“Damn it Delilah.” he mutters harshly. “I didn’t mean for it to end up like this, I didn’t mean to hurt you-!”

Alexander takes a bold step forward. “Just explain it to me Jamie cause I don’t understand why” he lets her desperation seep into his words. 

Jefferson ducks his head, shooting Hamilton a look so earnest that his stomach sort of flips. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He starts striding briskly in Hamilton’s direction, jaw set and eyes determined, and Hamilton uphold his roll and does not in anyway swoon as Jefferson bears down on him. But as he reaches out for Alexander’s face the virginian stalls slightly. Hamilton can almost see the gears turning in his head as he fumbles his hand into place, before practically stumbling into the kiss, all his momentum lost.

As soon as his lips are free, Alexander starts talking, well,  more like critiquing. 

“You can't pause like that, it looks like you’re trying to cover my mouth.” 

“Well, that’s what I doing.” Jefferson snaps back. 

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “No shit, jackass, but you don’t want  the audience to know what you’re doing, because then it looks like shit.” he pauses to run a hand through his hair. “Maybe it would work better if we forgot about all of this and just have you actually kiss her. I mean we’d have to talk with Eliza and make sure she comfortable with that but-”   
“No” Jefferson interjects bluntly.

Alexander narrows his eyes up at him. “Why not? There’s nothing weird about it. A lot of actors do it because it looks less stilted. So maybe-”

“-No”

“I’m just suggesting it’s something we could try” Hamilton seeths.

Jefferson pierces him  with his stony glare. “And I’m just saying no”

“What’s the problem with my idea?” he snaps back, temper flaring just under his skin. 

“I just-” the other man starts. Swallows. Then rakes his fingers through his hair. “It’s awkward, and I don’t feel comfortable with it.”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “Well then you have to learn this better. Here, I’ll show you. Come over here and play Delilah so I can show you how to do this.”

“What does a stagehand know about acting.” Jefferson hisses. “You talk big, but you’re just a glorified babysitter with a clipboard and a headset. Even Washington doesn’t think you have what takes.”

“That’s bullshit!” Hamilton shouts back. His quivering voice echos off the empty seats. 

The other man tosses him a condescending look. “Really? Cause if he had any faith in you, then you would be the assistant director, not Lafayette. Admit it, you’re just not good enough.”

Waves of rage a crashing down around Alexander, eroding away the rails on which his train of rational thought sit with every passing moment. 

“I’ll show you just how good I am.!” he snaps. “Come stand over here.”

So Jefferson takes his place in the center of the spotlight, flashing Alexander a hourmoless, tight lipped smile as they navigate around each other. Hamilton stands at the edge ring of light. 

Stupid fucking, arrogant douche bag, he seeths, fingers curling into the fabric of his jeans. Obnoxious prick. He’s going to prove him so wrong. He’s not just a stage hand, or a babysitter. He’s not.

“We’ll go from the same place” he mutters harshly. “Use the script so you don’t miss any lines.”

Once Jefferson has the script in hand, Alexander starts, channeling all his indignant rage into the passion of his character.

“Damn it Delilah. I didn’t mean for it to end up like this, I didn’t mean to hurt you-!” he chokes out, turning back to Jefferson, sure to make his gaze desperate.

He glances up from the page in order to deliver his line, dark eyes hard “Just explain it to me Jamie cause I don’t understand why” Alexander chuckles softly. It a weak, dry sound, like his voice is about to crack “Isn’t it obvious?”

He starts striding towards the taller man with purpose, determined to prove himself. He briefly gets a satisfying flash of his eyes going wide before he’s pressing his thumbs over his mouth. Hamilton uses the momentum he gained from crossing the stage propelled him up into the other man, fingers scrabbling along his jawline, heaving him down to his level. He loses himself in the moment, eyes falling closed as he presses up- aches up into him. They stagger back a step, Jefferson unprepared to suddenly have the whole of Alexander’s weight on him. Hands fall to his hips, gripping tight in shock, and a muffled little noise hums against his fingers. 

It takes the immigrant a considerably inappropriate amount of time to pull away. He takes to huge steps back from Jefferson, eager to wrench himself from the other’s grip. Both their hands fall limply to their sides. His chest is heaving as he glares up at the virginian, daring him to say something.

For his part, Jefferson looks completely off kilter, like he’s just been knocked off his axis. Dazidly he blinks over at Hamilton, swaying slightly as if the world was spinning. 

“That was-” he starts, then shakes his head. Next time he peers at Alexander, the usual sharpness has returned to his eyes, transforming them into horrid pits once more. “Why the hell do you hide backstage when you can do that?” 

Hamilton bites down on his lower lip, unsure how to take the pseudo complement from a man he utterly despises. “It doesn’t matter. Shut up.”

Jefferson takes a shuffling step towards him. “How incredibly unlike you. To assume a job that you’ll never receive recognition for, when you could be the center of attention.” He remakers in a biting tone. “Why is that, I wounder.”

“I said shut up.” he replies tensely. “You need to try again.”

The other man opens his mouth to protest but hardly gets out the first syllable before his phone chimes in his pocket. He quickly pulls it out, types out something, then pockets the device once more.

“I have to go.” he says dully. He moves to leave the stage but Alexander jumps in front of him, barring him from leaving.

“You can’t just leave, you still suck at this.”

Jefferson glowers down at him, mouth pressing into an unpleasant line. “I think I have a basic grasp on the idea, I’ll be just fine on my own.” he pause briefly, slipping a hand into his back pocket. “Thank you Alexander, this wasn’t actually the big waste of time I thought it would be.” He then presses something small and round into his hand, folding his fingers around it carefully. 

Hamilton opens up his hand, to find a container of ice breakers.

“You’ll need those.” The virginian mutters in his ear. “Your breath smells like coffee and ass.”

He brushes past before Alexander has the chance to fully process what he’s said. By the time it sinks in, he already halfway down the stairs. This doesn’t stop Alexander from flinging the little plastic container at his head. 

“Fuck the FUCK OFF JEFFERSON!” he screeches.

The tin hits the wall just above Jefferson’s head with a disastifyinly hollow plink.


	3. Drill Bits and Condoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which both Jefferson and Hamilton realize he has no idea what he's doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG CHAPTER TONIGHT FOLKS  
> I hope y'all like sexual tension and mutual pinning ;p  
> Thanks to my lovely beta reader for this chapter, Emma! (ham-for-ham)  
> As always I love to hear from you so why not leave a comment!

Everyone participating in any show put on by the King’s College Theater program is required to put in at least fifteen hours of tech time. That’s fifteen hour spent in someway working on the set and background pieces for the show at minimum. Like in all things however, Hamilton tends to go the extra ten miles, often spending closer to forty or fifty hours in the scene shop. It’s something he really enjoys. Alexander understands the power of words better than anyone, but he must admit, there’s a strange exhilaration in getting to work with power tools. The delicate keys of his laptop are always nice, the gentle clicking sound they make when he’s rounding on his tenth page of writing is a sound he’s always found soothing. Regardless, he loves the feeling of a heavy power drill in his hand, loves the smell of the sawdust coming off the electric saw. He’s often released a lot of his frustration out on unsuspecting nails as he pounds together platform frames with a hammer. He really likes his tool belt too. It’s nice pho leather with a big buckle on the front and lots of loops to hang his tools from. And if he likes the little extra weight it adds to his hips, well, that’s really no ones business but his own.

It’s about two months until curtains and the deadline for getting in those precious hours is drawing near. A lot of the actors have shown up today as a result. Techies and performers alike are scattered throughout the scene shop and the stage, working on various projects under Hamilton’s watchful eye. On one half of the stage a few students are drilling together the frames for the walls of the backdrop. John is among them, directing newer recruits on how to properly use the power drill. On the other half, Angelica and Eliza sit with some others, painting pieces of plywood a soft shade of blue. Alexander can't help but let his eyes linger on the middle Schuyler sister. She’s in an old, oversized white t shirt, already covered in globs of blue paint, with her raven hair swept back in a high ponytail. She’s definitely out of Alexander league, still, a man can hope. She’s sweet and would definitely keep him out of trouble better than John ever did.

When she glances up their eyes meet. Eliza smiles softly at him and waves. Hamilton grins back in a way he hopes comes off as more flirty then strange. Regardless, she laughs.

“Hey doe eyes!” Laurens calls, tearing Alexander’s attention away from the pretty girl. He holds out a drill to him. “Mind grabbing me another battery?”

The immigrant takes it into his hand, enjoying the weight of it in his palm. He’s only five three, tools like this make him feel powerful, and just a little bit sexier.

He tosses John a teasing wink, sure to cock out his hip with the hammer hanging from it. “Whatever you say boss.”

The man on the floor rolls his eyes. “You are such an attention whore.”

Alexander smirks down at him, starting to back peddle slowly towards the scene shop, and if his swings his hips a little more the necessary, who could fault him really. “It’s alright to say you miss these legs.” he teases, then bite his lower lip

John just laughs before turning back to help the kid with the drill in reverse.

Hamilton continues his little show, resting his elbow to the top of his hip as he goes. He’s just about to turn the right way around when he bumps right into someone very solid. Hands come to rest gently on his waist. 

“Nice belt” Jefferson murmurs, hot breath far too close to Alexander’s neck for comfort. It's almost as though he’s ready to sink his teeth into his flesh. 

Hamilton practically jumps out of his steel toed work boots, swinging around with the heavy drill clutched tight to his chest. 

The virginian laughs his same stomach turning laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. Alexander opens his mouth to curse the bastard out for startling him like that, and putting his filthy hands on him, the but words catch in the back of his throat when he sees those sweatpants the other man is wearing. This is the first time he can recall ever seeing Jefferson in sweatpants, and now he understands why. 

They’re downright sinful on him. A loose faded gray fabric that looks ridiculously soft and folds in a way that only confirms his suspicions of what exactly it is the other man is packing. Not just that, but they also hang ridiculously low on his hips. Just high enough to be considered ‘decent’ but Hamilton swears up and down that he spies just the slightest hint of fine black hair peeking from under the elastic band. He’s also wearing a white tank top under an expensive looking cardigan. 

The whole ensemble is a workplace hazard, in more ways than one.

“What in hell are you wearing?” he deadpans, fixing the other man with a withering stare.

Jefferson scoffs. “I could ask you the same thing. Who tucks in a shirt like that? Though I can’t say I’m all that surprised, you do have the most atrocious sense of fashion of anyone I’ve ever met.”

“This isn’t a runway you prick, we’re here to work.”

“That was the impression I was under, yes” the taller man retorts.

Alexander wants to pull his hair out. Jefferson isn’t stupid. As much as he proclaims it in class, and to his friends, and to anyone unlucky enough to lend him an ear, Jefferson is actually, infuriatingly brilliant. Not many people keep up with Hamilton as he does.Verbal spars can sometime even leave Hamilton with nothing to say. So no, he’s not stupid in any right, but he sure does do a damn good job of acting like he is. 

Hamilton sighs. “And yet you wear expensive clothing that dangles. We’re using paint and power tools, your sweater will get ruined in two minutes. Take it off”

“There are much nicer ways to ask me to strip.” Jefferson smirks. Alexander gags, causing the taller man to huff, brow furrowing in displeasure. “Fine, but only because this particular cardigan happens to be a limited edition and I doubt you could afford to have it cleaned.”

“For once, maybe you could try not being a gigantic asshole?” Alexander says dull.

Jefferson doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply, he simply shrugs his cardigan from his shoulders and-

-holy hell

His arms are bigger than Alexander’s head. Fucking christ.

Carefully the virginian fold up the expensive fabric and sets it on a nearby counter, before turning back around to face the little immigrant who’s in no way checking him out. And know one can prove that he was. 

Jefferson cocks a questioning brow and Hamilton shakes himself. Here to work- right.

He presses the heavy drill into the other man’s hands. “You can help John build frames” he mutters. “Come on”

So he leads Jefferson from behind the curtains onto the stage and gestures to where John is furiously digging out a stripped screw with the back of his hammer. He glances up as the two approach, expression immediately souring when he notices Jefferson’s towering form, but says nothing. 

Alexander drops to the floor, motioning for his companion to follow his lead. The virginian slowly lowers himself to the floor, staring warily at the drill in his hand, fiddling with the trigger. It gives a whining groan as the little safty light flickers on and  the bit rotates a few times before sputtering to a halt. It still needs a new battery but that’s Jefferson’s problem now. 

Alexander takes a few screws from the box by his knee and forces them into his hand. “Alright, so the frames are already measured and fitted so all you have to do is screw it together. One here-” he indicates the spot in the top beam. “-and one here” another point on the side. “Easy enough”

Jefferson spins the drill once more, watching the poor, dying motor force the bit to roll, then glances incredulously up at him. But Alexander is already shuffling to his feet, wiping away dirt and sawdust from his paint splattered jeans as he goes, desperate to get as far from the other man as possible.

“If you have any questions, ask John.”

“Hey Alex” John calls, waving frantically to get his attention. “I still need a working drill.”

“Right, I’ll grab it right now hang on a sec”

He saunters his way into the scene shop, where the howl of Peggy is working the huge power saw assults his ears. Taking a wide arch around the work bench, he marches up to the bright red tool chest against the far wall and jimmies it open. Inside are rows of power drill chargers, some occupied, but all lit up and ready to go. Hamilton pulls out two of the softball sized packs, grabs a spare drill, which he tucks under his arm, then carefully close the cabinet once more. As he makes his way back to John, he pops one of the fresh batteries into the drill. 

John takes it with a brilliant smile. “Appreciate it man.”

Alexander  flashes him a smile in return, but it doesn’t last long. Not when the high pitched keen of Jefferson failing drill fills the air. He glares down at him.

The virginian is tentatively pressing the brealy turning drill bit into the head of the screw and watching it spin with some mixture of frustration and uncertainty on his face. Annoyed,Hamilton scrubs a hand over his eyes before joining the utterly hapless man on the floor. With a grunt and an indignant splutter from Jefferson, he grabs the tool from his hand and replaces the battery.

“Try now” he instructs.

This time, when Jefferson presses the trigger the drill roars to life with a whirring shriek the causes him to jump.

Hamilton nods. “Yeah that should work, go ahead and try now.”

So Jefferson places the tip of the screw to the place Alexander indicates and tries again. The screw gets about halfway in before the drill starts to chug and slip, inadvertently stripping the screw head.

“Stop!” he shrieks, batting at the other man’s hands until he pulls away. “You have to put more weight on it or it’s just gonna get stuck. Here-” he moves to kneel behind Jefferson, placing overlapping hands on his shoulders, and man, Jefferson is really warm and toned, he notes. The lean muscles in his shoulder jump under Hamilton’s perpetually cold fingers. He pushes the revelation to the side for the moment. “Try again”

And Jefferson does, starting the drill but still not pushing hard enough to keep it from chugging. So Alexander presses down on his shoulders with a the weight in his tiny frame.

“Harder” he commands.

“Harder!” John moans, fixing Alexander with an impish smirk.

The drill in Jefferson’s hand slips, causing it to  _ thunk _ hard against the stage floor, and he swears under his breath. Immediately Alexander retracts his hands, face flushing a burning scarlet as he scoots as far from the taller man as possible. Then he shoots Laurens a look. John ducks his head into his shoulder so only his mischievous eyes are peeking over the hood of his sweatshirt. 

Hamilton jumps to his feet. “Whatever, you’ve got it, probably. John can help you. I’m just gonna.” he’s babbling. “I’m gonna go help with the painting and stuff. Over there, far away from you” He retreats before Jefferson can respond, shuffling over to were  Angelica and Eliza still sit and plops himself down between the two of them. 

To his left, Angelica tosses him a knowing smirk.

“Don’t say anything” he growls.

To his right, Eliza laughs. It's a soft sound, like the delicate tinkle of wind chimes and immediately he softens.

“I think she only means to say that the two of you are rather cute.” she supplies sweetly.

Hamilton’s face pales. “And you as well, my dear Elizabeth? You would hurt me so?” he moans, dramatically holding a hand to his heart. 

She snorts, rolls her big brown eyes, and hands him a paintbrush.

For the next hour they paint and chat pleasantly about almost everything and anything. The longer they talk the fonder Alexander grows of the quite Schuyler sister. She hangs wrapped on his every word, nodding along with adoring eyes and a rosy flush in her cheeks. She so easy to get along with, too easy in fact. As wonderful as she is, and truly, Alexander’s sure he’ll never meet a kinder, sweeter soul than Eliza, she offers up no witty banter or clever rebuttal, and as such, his arguments fall flat and his claims unrefuted. It’s by no means an unpleasant conversation, and if he weren’t afraid her sister might gut him, he’d ask her out for dinner after this. But he can feel himself growing a bit antsy. He casts a sidelong look across the stage to where Jefferson is. Perhaps he should go over there and start a screaming match, just to have something to fight about. While considering this option however, he’s suddenly sprayed with something cold and wet. He whips his gaze back around to Eliza, who’s just delicately flick some paint onto his face. But her smile is soft and in no way vindictive.

“Where is your mind, Alexander?” she asks.

He returns the smile. “I was just thinking-” he presses the end of his brush to the tip of her nose, causing her to giggle. He melts. “Yup, blue is definitely your color.”

However, his phone chooses that exact moment to buzz, signaling him that it’s time to clean up and lock up the theater. With a heavy sigh he staggers to his feet, legs numb and dead under his weight. He gathers up a few brushes, gives Eliza one more tender smile, then shuffles off to the sink behind the stage. 

As he’s walking though, a hand connects rather harshly with his ass, making him jump and swear. Next second Laurens is sprinting past him,cackling, the palm of his one hand painted entirely blue.

“Asshole!” Hamilton shouts after him, before craning around to see what damage his ridiculous friend did. The assault is nothing unusual, the seat of Alexander’s work jeans are covered a rainbow array of handprints. It sort of a perverse tradition whenever they pull out the paints.

Still, he huffs under his breath, dumping his brushes in the sink and flicks on the water. Cleaning off the brushes is dull work, others come by and deposit their own painting supplies into the basin but no one's stays to chat or lend a hand, certainly none of the actors. So Alexander bobs gently along to the beat of a distant song still blaring from someone's phone as he scrubs away the drying paint. Three agonizingly uneventful minutes pass, dragging on at an exhausting pace before it happens. Before two large, warm hands press against his ass. 

Hamilton squeaks at the sudden invasion, the brush he’s holding goes clattering into the sink.

For the second time in too few hours, Jefferson’s breath is ghosting along his neck. “Maybe you’re not as scrawny as I thought.” he mumbles, before giving his ass a playful squeeze.

Alexander squawks, flailing his arms about wildly in attempt to free himself, the struggle is pointless however, as the taller man makes no move to restrain him, taking an easy step back at the first signs of resistance. 

The immigrant wheels around, seeting and flushed along his neck. “Fucker-!” he’s practically screeching, jabbing a finger into Jefferson’s chest. “That’s fucking sexual assault, you -  dick-!”

The corners of the other man’s mouth curl up deviously. He knots his hands behind his back, feigning  innocence, but his dark eyes are heavy lidded and full of malicious intent. Alexander won’t admit to the shiver that races down his spine. “That wasn’t my intention” Jefferson says in a sing song voice. “I just want to be part of the game as well.”

“Game?” the gears turn slowly in his head until they click with a resounding snap. Alexander twists his body, jerking his head over his shoulder. Sure enough, there are two identical, Jefferson sized handprints stamped to his ass in bright white paint. “Fuck” he spits.

Someone, Hamilton’s not sure who, is chuckling

Someone else mutters “Holy shit” under their breath.

And still Jefferson is smirking down at him with his stupid perfect lips parted in a half smile. Alexander’s whole body burns hot.

Now he’s going to have to burn these jeans-

 

He doesn’t actually burn the jeans of course. Because he’s a struggling college student and who the fuck has the money to just burn cloths. He does stay up an extra two hours that night trying to scrub off the offending paint stains to no avail. By three in the morning he was forced to give up. He stuffed the pants under his bed, resigning himself to the fact that he will never be able to wear them again. 

Though the evidence is hidden, the event still haunt him for nearly a week after, Jefferson makes sure of that. He revels in bringing it up any chance that he gets, during class, at rehearsal, anywhere he knows he can humiliate Alexander because he’s just that kind of prick. It’s annoying, and embarrassing and it didn’t take long for his friend to pick up on the taunts as well. He gets why. Ha ha look at Hamilton getting one upped by the insufferable souther dick bag, it’s all very funny. But seriously, he can only take so many days of ass grabbing based humor before his patience starts to run thin. By the time November rolls around everyone is far too busy with the show to pay the incident much mind.

It fascinates Hamilton to watch how quickly the show is progressing, pieces falling rapidly into place as the end of the month draws steadily closer. The choreography is finished, all the blocking set and the vast majority of the set complete. All that’s left to do is to polish it up, running though the show, beginning to end every night. Eliza is still stunning, she’s really swelled into her role with gusto and grace, as have the others. And Jefferson continues to befuddle him. Incredibly talented, he sweeps across the stage like an ominous wall of water on a gray and stormy sea. Loud and all consuming, Alexander can’t help but be frustrated in the way he drowns in his performance. He wants to write of his faults in his notes, have Washington berate him in front of the the others, because Jefferson is a massive,self serving asshole and it’d probably do him good to hear that he’s not the best thing since sliced bread or instant raman. But whenever Hamilton puts his pen to paper to write something disparaging all that comes out are half constructed insults which he scratches out with vigor, or accidental compliments. Lafayette finds his struggle amusing and more often than not Alexander doesn't have a  note sheet for the lanky virginian. The only break in the rushing tide comes near the end of act one. The cursed kiss scene that plague Alexander’s restless sleep for three days after he agreed to help. Caramel scented dreams that left him boiling in his skin the next morning. Regardless, the whole kiss thing seems to still be giving him trouble. He still stutters and fumbles, muttering awkward apologies to a sympathetic Eliza under his breath. And yet he refuses to meet with Alexander again to polish it.

  
  
  


A week and a half later and it's the Wednesday  before the show. Alexander has been at the theater since noon getting everything ready for the final, full costume dress rehearsal before curtains tomorrow. He helped Herc lay out all the make up, pulled out all the props with Laurens  and pulled out the mics from the lighting booth with Peggy. Currently he’s sitting in the low lit stage right wing, dressed in his long black sleeved shirt and black jeans, directing actors down stairs for the make up tutorial while setting up all the mics. More than two dozen simple black battery packs which he plugs wires into the top of. Its dull work, most of the jobs he does are menial and thankless but the performance relies on him to stuff these awkwardly shaped rectangles into condoms. He peels open another foil package and rolls the condom over the mics battery pack, hands covered in that almost chalky substance that covers latex gloves and these cheap pieces of shit. He struggles with it a moment before the rubber snaps into place. Hamilton lets out a little satisfied huff and brushes some hair back behind his ear. 

“Are these condoms?”

Hamilton jumps, then scowls. 

Jefferson hovers at the other end of the table he’s working at. Seriously, he needs to put a bell on this fucker or something because this is getting old, and fast.

The taller man snags on of the empty boxes and examines it with disinterest. “Extra large? Well, then these certainly aren't yours.” his full lips part in a wicked grin.

Alexander rolls his eyes, setting down the mic he’s holding by the other finished ones. “Hilarious” he deadpans. “Maybe you should get a job as a comedian and get the fuck out of my life.”

“Harsh” Jefferson shoots back. A pause, then- “Why in hell are you putting condoms on those battery packs.”

The immigrant raises his brow in question, easing back in his seat. “Why do you fucking care?”

The taller of the two shrugs. “I'm a curious man, and it’ll bug me all rehearsal if I don’t know.”

“Good, maybe the curiosity will kill you.”

Jefferson scoffs. “Well someone's pissy today.”

“You’re not going to leave until I tell you, will you.” Alexander retorts. 

He shakes his head, curls bouncing gleefully. “Most likely, no”

Hamilton sighs. “We put the condoms on the mic to keep your gross back sweat from ruining the batteries. Anymore questions?”

Jefferson’s expression curdles unpleasantly. “Disgusting” then he turns gracefully on his heel, heading no doubt for the dressing rooms.

“Why do you even ask then!” he bellows after his retreating back.

With a huff the little stage manager slinks back into his seat. Jefferson is such an arrogant motherfucker. As much as he’s grown to love this musical Hamilton can’t wait for it to be over, just so he can be rid of him. Assuming the virginian never auditions again. The thought makes him shudder. If Jefferson ever does another show, Hamilton will resign, surely. Maybe look into that whole speech team thing instead, because these last two months have been as hellish as he anticipated. It would suck, but at least Jefferson wouldn’t be there. 

In a considerably worse mood than when he started this overlooked task, he reaches into the box for another condom. His fingertips find nothing but cardboard however. His brow furrows, he was sure he told John the right number of  boxes to pick up so how can he be out already? Hamilton pushes away from the table, going to seek out Laurens. Perhaps he left a box in his car by mistake or forgot to buy it entirely. Regardless, Alexander is still at least a dozen mics short. 

The freckled crew member is filling empty liquor bottles with tap water from the scene shop sink when he finds him. 

“Hey John do you know where that other box of condoms went? I’m one short and I need to get these all put together before people start showing up or Burr’s gonna bitch at me again about being unprofessional.”

Laurens shrugs. “I’m not sure man. Maybe Pegs has it? I know she was talking about grabbing the spare mics in case some of ours have gone bad. Check the lighting booth.”

Hamilton nods “Right, thanks.”

So he sets his course for Peggy’s lighting booth, taking the rickety metal steps two at a time in his haste. The last thing he needs his Burr whining about this not being done. It’s not like he has any right to complain when he doesn’t actually help him put them together but he’ll do it anyway. And because they live together, Hamilton knows he’ll never hear the end of it so mind as swell grin and bear it and just get it done. Plus, he can grab the headsets while he’s up here. 

He tries the handle, but to his surprise, it’s locked. That’s strange. He wraps a little beat against the lighting booths door and waits with thumbs hooked in his belt loops. Something from inside bangs, like Peggy’s gone and tripped over her chair, again. He rolls his eyes and knocks a little harder.

“Come on Pegs open up. John said to see if you have that other box of-”

The lock clicks and the door  opens just a sliver, enough for Lafayette to poke his head out. 

“-condoms.” Alexander finishes lamely, voice peetering off at the end as his mind works to process the scene before him.

The frenchman peeks owlish out at him from behind the door, face flushed a marvelously inconspicuous shade of scarlet, hair loose and wild, literally sticking up in every direction. His face breaks out in a sheepish grin. 

“Ah, ‘ello Alexander...” he chirps, slapping a hand to the side of his neck, but not before Hamilton spies a rather fresh looking hickey there. “Is there something that you needed?”

A broad, mischievous smirk pulls up the corners on his mouth, because in his haste, it would seem Laf forgot to throw on a shirt. Hamilton feels laughter bubbling up in his stomach but squeezes his lungs tight to hold it at bay. “I was just gonna see it Peggy knew where that missing box of mic condoms was. you don’t happen to know where they are, do you?”

Laf ducks his head, hair falling in his eyes as he does. , I may ‘ave seen it. Perhaps I could grab it for you?”

“That be perfect.” he replies coyly, moving to lean against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest.

Laf nods once more before shutting the door behind him with a snap. Alexander strains to hear the mumble of voices behind the door. He can assume who his dear friend is fool around in there with,  but it never hurts to be sure. A moment later, the out of sorts frenchman cracks the door once more, peering out at him with brown eyes bright and gleaming. His arm snakes out,  passing the box of cheap latex condoms to him.

The shorter man cocks a brow. “Really? You had to take the whole box? I mean, I applaud your ambition but-”

“Stop cock blocking Alex!” Comes Peggy's shrill voice from over Laf’s shoulder.

He can’t help it, he lets loose a squeaky chuckle. “Alright I get it.” he makes to leave

But not before Lafayette can reach into the box and snag a condom with an adorably embarrassed grin, locking the door behind him as he slinks back into the booth.

“We still have to do a mic check so make it fast!” he shouts at the door, before he heads back the way he came. 

A stupid little grin makes its way onto his face. He’s happy for them, they’ll make a disgustingly adorable couple together, he’s sure of it. Everyone will be sick of them in a week.

As he makes his way across the creaking catwalks he can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever find anyone to be happy with like that. When he was with John it was wonderful of course, he looks back on those memories and they’re bathed in bright sunlight and a warm shades of gold,  but that’s it. They were happy,  but they were never in love. Not the love that paints everything a violent shade of red, anyway, Not the love that makes one's chest ache when they roll over and see that other person in their bed. No, that’s the love those two idiots screwing in the soundbooth will share, or some gentler shade of pink at least. With John it was different, from the beginning they knew it was only going to end one way and they were both fine with that, it’s the reason they’re still so close now. They knew their love was never meant to last so it was easy for them to fall out of it and instead take up this more platonic sort of caring. Yellow is nice, yellow is warm and happy and full of laughter, just like their relationship had been. It was enough. But Alexander has never been satisfied with just ‘enough’.. He craves that deeper passion, the hotter flame. He wonders if he can find it with Eliza. In her soft smile and wide eyes and gentle way of speaking. Alexander can’t help but wonder if he could find the spark he’s looking for. He’s definitely willing to try, he’s surprised by how willing he is to try with her. She feels different, but a nagging tug on his heart tells him it may not be the different he’s looking for. He takes that thought and puts it away in a little box in the back of his mind, something to worry about later.

“You find ‘em?” Laurens asks, still standing at the sink when Hamilton reaches the stage floor once more.

The immigrant blinks out of his thoughts, forcing himself to be present once more. “Yeah, Laf had them.”

John tips his head to the side, confused. “Laf had them?”

A huge grin spreads over his face “My god John wait till you hear this. He and Peg-”

“Alexander, there you are.” Comes Burr's voice from across the stage. 

Annoyed, he turns to face him.

The other stage manager is striding briskly towards him, all dressed up in  black and sporting a headset and a scowl, but really, what else is new.

“I can’t believe you would  leave me to hook up everyone's mics by myself.” he stops short a couple paces of him and John, folding his arms over his chest. 

Alexander merely shrugs. “I’m sure you could have handled it on your own, mister co- stage manager.”

He hears Laurens snort over his shoulder as Burr rolls his eyes. 

“That’s not the point, Alexander, just get over here and help me.”

“Fine.” the immigrant  shoots back. “Fine. But you’re putting condoms on the rest of the mics.”

Burr grumbles under his breath but makes no clear objections, and that's enough for Alexander.  Together they head back to stage right where a few actors hover awkwardly in their full costume and makeup. Hamilton takes up the roll of gauze tape while the other man situates himself at the table and  they get to work. While Burr snaps rubbers over the plastic battery packs, Alexander runs wires under the actors cloths, down their backs before  hooking the mics to the special pouches Herc’s sewn into the inside of jackets and dresses. Then he tapes them down so they don't tangle or fall loose, running them through people's hair where he can, positioning the receivers at the hairline, so as to hide them best. He finishes up one of the supporting cast’s and sends the boy out onto the stage for his mic check just as Eliza steps up. The frantic whirring of his mind slows to a gentle hum as she smiles sweetly at him, the part in her lips calming his racing hands. Suddenly, it’s not such a rush to get everyone moving. 

The pale lilac dress she wears complements her pales skin and dark hair well, the loose, airy fabric falling just above her stocking clad knees. Herc’s swept her hair up in a long, low braid at the base of her neck. Lips painted a playful shade of coral while an artificially blush covers the tops of her cheeks, she sweeps some imaginare hair from her cheek nervously.

“It’s always so nerve wracking right before you go on stage, isn’t it?” she comments, voice a faint whisper.

Hamilton chuckles, taking a mic pack in hand as he guides her to spin round. “You’ tell me, I don’t even get as much as a curtain call back here.” he quips, which makes Eliza giggle. He puts fingers tentatively on the zipper of her dress. “Hold the front of it okay? The battery can be a little heavy.”

She nods vigorously, braid almost striking him in the face. “I’ll feel better once we start.” she mutters breathlessly, like she’s trying to convince herself of it. 

Hamilton hums gently in reply as he unzips her. Her bra is pearly blue and lacey . He swallows, flushing slightly at his own vulgarity, and drops the mic into the little inside pouch in her dress.

“I work myself, but once the lights go up, all the worry falls away. Don’t you get that sense of calm once the curtains open?” she asks

“My dear Eliza. You seem to forget that I’m no actor.” he starts, carefully pulling the mic end of the wire up though one of the folds of her hair. “My whole job revolves around making sure nothing goes wrong. I only feel relieved once the curtains falls.” he tapes the cool plastic wire of the mic to her back then quickly re zips her dress. “ How’s that feel?”

She tilts her head a bit, back and forth, up and down to make sure there aren't any places where the mic wire snags or the tape pulls to hard. Then she nods once more. 

“Perfect, thanks Alex.” she touches his shoulder lightly as she passes, headed for the stage.

The gesture almost seems dismissive, which sits oddly in Hamilton’s chest. He tries to shake it free by fiddling with his headset. No one as sweet as Eliza would mean it as anything less then friendly. He’s reading to much into it as he has a tendency to do, so used to being brushed aside by other people, other actors that could care less about what he does. But not Eliza, she’s too kind.

“If everyone could line up at the front of the stage, we’ll being the mic check in a moment” Washington calls from the auditorium. His booming voice sends the actors and actress shuffling into a neat little line on the apron of the stage. Hamilton can’ help but chuckle a bit under his breath, meandering over to the edge of the stage to watch from the curtains. He definitely enjoys the fact that he’s not subjected to the same verbal abuse as the actors. As long as he somewhat does as he’s told, Washington generally leaves him alone, which is perfectly fine with him. He works best by himself.

Washington calls out names, having those individuals test out their microphones. Some sing parts of their songs, others, newer berber recite the classic ‘check check one two check’ over and over on repeat, and other still, like Eliza ramble off a few lines. While they speak Peggy, up in the lighting booth, adjusts the levels on the mics.

Washington then calls for Jefferson to go, but the auditorium is met with silence. Everyone starts looking around, as if they could somehow miss the towering, gaudy man. Hamilton huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Thomas” Washington tries again, and still, the only response is the dull electric hum of the soundsystem. Speakers waiting with baited breath for an output. “Where’s Thomas?”

“Alexander” the veteran actor calls next, and Hamilton feels his stomach nosedive down towards his toes. Gingerly, he peeks out from behind the pho velvet curtains. Washington stands in the middle of the auditorium at least ten rows back from the stage. Even in the low light reflecting from the stage floor, he can see the deep set crease of the older man's’ heavy brow. Lafayette hovers beside him, having snuck back from the lighting booth just in time to uphold his duties.

“Yes sir?” Hamilton calls back, taking a few more shuffling steps out onto the stage floor. The lights from overhead are a blinding, brilliantly burning white. He has to squint to see through them.

“Alexander, where is Thomas?” Washington asks, voice tight with obvious exasperation.

“No clue sir, he never came up to get his mic.”

Washington sighs. “Will you go and find him please.”

“With all do respect sir,” Alexander replies. “I don’t keep tabs on him. Jefferson isn’t my responsibility.”

“Really? Because I distinctly remember placing you in direct responsibility for him.”

All eyes in the room are on him now, curious and prying, making heat rise along Hamilton’s neck like a rash. He bites down on his lower lip, to proud to show even the slightest hint of submission, even through his stomach is writhing at the embarrassment of it all. Being called out in front of the entire  cast. The colors starts to drain from his face, like wet paint seeping out of a canvas    
“I’ll uh- I’ll go check the dressing room...” he peeters off lamely.

Washington nods stiffly, so Alexander turns and scampers off in the direction of the stairs, with fingers shaking and a cold sweat beading on his forehead. He snags a mic as he passes the work table.

The stairs down to the dressing room clang hollowly, their metal ping bouncing off the smooth concrete walls as he takes the steps two at a time. Curses fall from his mouth as he goes, a  senseless stream of explicites he plans to call Jefferson once he finds that conceited asshole and busts out his knee caps as payment for the indirect embarrassment he just caused. There’s never a wrong time to blame Jefferson from something. Global warming is his fault, simply because he exists, standing there, breathing CO2 in the air like some kind of heartless fucking monster.

“Jefferson!” he shouts, turning down a hall into one of the dedicated dressing rooms. Nothing in there but racks of haphazardly hung clothes. Hamilton grimaces before proceeding the rest of the way down the hall, towards the soft yellow glow warming the tiles. “Jefferson you utter dick bag, we’re doing mic checks, get your lazy ass on stage!”

His voice echos of the empty walls and bare floor, but is still met with no response. So Alexander  doubles his pace, practically stomping into the room at the end of the hall.

It’s devoid of  people except for the one elites prick he was looking for. Jefferson is sitting in a folding chair at the far end of the room in front of a row of mirrors. The little lights around the glass cast a hauntingly gaunt shadow over the bit of face Hamilton can discern. Around him on the counter are an array of discarded make up items.

“Hey, asshole” he deadpans “Call was five minutes ago, come on. Washington’s pissed and frankly, so am I.”

Jefferson shoots him a glare over his shoulder, before turning fully in his seat to face Alexander.The virginian is only half dressed in his costume. He’s got the slacks on, neatly pressed and held up with a slim black belt, and his stark white undershirt and that’s it. His hair is pushed out of his face, the left side of which, is a pasty shade lighter than the right.

Hamilton sags against the door frame, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “If you start singing Reflections from Mulan, I am going to scream.”

Jefferson snarls, flashing perfectly straight, probably bleached white teeth at him. “Fuck off, you slimy little rat.”

“Wish that I could.” he hums in response. “But under threat of my life, Washington sent me down here to get you.” he pauses, watching the way the other man’s eyes drift over to mess of stage make up on the counter. “What are you doing, anyway? Why aren't you ready? And why the hell are you using such light foundation?”

Jefferson’s scowl melts into a look of confusion. “Is- is this not right?”

Alexander gapes at him. “Uuuh  have you looked in the mirror?” he can’t help the creeping feeling that they’ve had this conversation before. It seems what Jefferson has in raw ability, he makes up for tenfold with lack of basic theater knowledge. Hamilton sighs heavily, striding briskly over to Jefferson as he flips on his headset. “Hey Pegs.” he says, causing the other man to shoot him a look of confusion. Alexander ignores it.

“Whatcha need Hambone?” Peggy replies, the sound of her voice laced with static from the old microphones. 

“Let Washington know that I found Jefferson, but it’s gonna be a few more minutes. Just have him go ahead with warm ups.”

“Got it”

After that he clicks off his headset once more. Jefferson opens his mouth, jagged eyes dark with protest but Hamilton is quick to cut him off. “It’s not like you participate anyway.” he says dully, dropping himself into the cold metal chair right of the Virginian. “What foundation did you use?”

He doesn’t want to help Jefferson, in fact, Alexander is rather sick of constantly digging him out of his messes, but they have a show to put on. Better to save himself the time and do it himself, then have Washington breathing down his neck later, or risk things looking stupid on filming night. Even if he’s never formally recognized as having a major part in the shows, Hamilton takes every failure seriously, every missed cue is like a personal attack to his ability. His only job is to make sure everything runs smoothly, after all, so he takes a fair bit of pride in his work, never one to half ass something.

Jefferson fumbles a compact into his hand, and Alexander turns it over to check the label on the back.

He sighs “Okay, this  color way too light for you. The foundation should match your skin tone”

“I understand the concept of foundations, Hamilton.” Jefferson snaps back.

“Then why did you do it wrong?” he raises his brows, waiting for an answer

Jefferson says nothing. He just glares half heartedly at Hamilton, so the immigrant pulls out the drawer beside him and rifles through it. He turns up a few different shades of foundation and lays them out on the tacky vinyl counter. The he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wrinkled tissue.

“First we have to get this other crap off your face.” he mutters, then wets the end of the tissue on the tip of his tongue before bringing it up to the paler half of the other man's face.

Jefferson however, dodges his advancing hand with a sound much like a dog being stepped on. “Get that away from me” he barks 

Hamilton rolls his eyes “Stop making such a big deal, you’ll be fine”

“I don’t want your disgusting spit anywhere near my face.” again, he dodges him.

Alexander throws the tissue down on the counter in exasperation before leaping to his feet. “Fine!” he then turns and strides over to a large cardboard box next to the coat rack. As he leans over the lip to reach inside he feels eyes on his back, tracing the curve of his spine as he bends. He huffs, puffing so loose hair out of his eyes, then he stands, triumphant with a box of baby wipes in his hand. 

“Since you’re going to be a baby about it.” He chucks the plastic container into Jefferson’s lap. “Clean off your face.”

And the other man does as he’s told, albeit with much eye rolling and resignation, but still, an improvement from his usual complete disregard for Hamilton’s instructions.

While Jefferson scrubs his face, the sharp smell of chemicals perforating the air, Alexander dips the tip of his index finger into one of the darker compacts he grabbed, then snatches up the virginian’s wrist with the other hand. Instantly Jefferson tries to pull away, but Hamilton tightens his grip on his arm before he can slip through his fingers. The situation isn't ideal fro him either when he’s no more eager to touch Jefferson then he is to stick his hands in an oil slick, but they’re both just going to have to put their big boy pants on and deal with it for now. But Jefferson’s skin isn't oily or caustic like he imagined. The man isn’t built out of brimstone or acrid smoke. There’s soft, warm flesh under the pads of Alexander’s fingers. He can feel the delicateness of his veins against the palm of his hand pulsing faintly in time to the beat of his heart. He’s not sure what he was expecting, maybe flesh as icy and slick as the walls of some dark, musty cave. But instead, he’s warm like star stuff.

He rolls the other man’s hand over in his grip, turning the back of his hand upwards.

“What in gods name are you doing, Hamilton?” Jefferson inquiries.

“I’m testing colors against your skintone before I put them on your face. Watch” Alexander smears the fondation over a little spot on the back of the taller man’s hand. It’s too dark and too rich against his warm copper skin. So he huffs, dips another finger into another shade and tries that one. It’s a  lot closer than the last two, but he’ll try a third just to be safe. It doesn’t match as well as the previous, Hamilton picks that one up and turns it over to read the label

“See this here” he waves the compact in Jefferson’s face. “This is the foundation you want. It’s called Mocha, remember that.”

Jefferson slaps his hand away, with his jaw clenched tight. “I get it.” he growls.

Hamilton takes a cosmetic  sponge and starts applying the new foundation to this companion's now clean face, drawing it across the high, frustratingly perfect slops of his cheekbones and down his stubbled jaw, sure to make  the color consistent and even. They don’t speak while he works, a viscous silence fills the room that makes each breath sound like a monstrous yawn. When that’s done, he sets the foundation aside and picks up the blush.

“Male characters where the darker shade” he tells the other man,before dabbing the corner of the sponge into the blush. “You’re going to apply it right at the apples of your cheeks. Right here” carefully, he sweeps the dark reddish tint just below Jefferson’s eyes. “I hope you've got all this because this is the last time I ever help you.”he adds while blending in the color.

At this Jefferson snorts, rolling his eyes  dramatically, even for him. “Like you have anything better to do with your time. Doesn’t this line up with your other petty tasks?”

His hand stalls. “Do you want me to leave, asshat?”

Jefferson shrugs. “Usually that’s all I ever want.”

“Fine” his chair makes a horrific, screeching, grinding sound as Alexander shoves it back, as far from this trust fund southern bitch as he can. He doesn’t need this harassment. “Contrary to what you may think, my job isn’t to take your shit, so have fun getting ready without me .” with that he turns sharply on his heel and makes for the exit. 

“Hamilton wait”

The simple statement is like fingers tugging on his sleeve, compelling him to turn back around more effectively than a hand forcing his shoulder. They offer nothing for him to push against, so he  has no choice but to face the virginian once more, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Half ready and hair wild, he offers Alexander little more than a weary, annoyed look. That’s about as much of an apology as he’ll get from someone like Jefferson. So he sighs with his whole upper body so Jefferson knows exactly how trying he finds all this, shoulders rising and slumping in an exaggerated display of his outright disgust, before he strides back over and plops himself into the chair once more.

“Next time-.” Hamilton says sharply, reaching over to pop the cap off of a tube of burgundy lipstick. With his free hand he takes the other man’s chin harshly between his thumb and index finger, dragging him forward with a jerk of his wrist. “I’m going to make you beg.”

Jefferson scoffs “I’d like to see you try,  _ darlin’ _ ”

He doesn’t respond, verbally anyway. He does, however, dig his fingers hard into Jefferson’s chin until he hears the other man hiss with discomfort. Severs him right.

They’re just wasting time. Hamilton maintains his grip on the other man’s jaw as he starts to apply the lipstick. The rich color only enhances the appeal of his full lips and dangerous mouth, which leads his treacherous mind back to begging. 

Desperate would be a nice color on Jefferson, he’s sure of it. Much better then the loud, eye piercing shades of purple that he wears. Purple is too harsh a color, to gaudy and abrasive. It’s raucous, like neon signs and teenage high tops or sequins and punk rock hair. Its flashy, and that’s why it’s perfect for Jefferson, and another reason Hamilton despises it. Still, he wonders what the virginian would look like painted a more subdued color, wonders if his mouth has other, less annoying applications. But of course, he’s far to prideful to ask for the free trial version.

As Hamilton drops his face, he sets the lipstick down and grabs the eyeliner instead. The finishing touch, then he can get back to his actual job that doesn’t involve being Jefferson’s personal assistant. 

“Close your eyes” he instructs, voice pinging off the floor in this big empty space. Jefferson seems wary of the command. “Or I could just poke your eye out, honestly, I could do either.”

With a huff, Jefferson’s eyes flutter shut, fanning long, regal lashes over the tops of his painted cheeks. Hamilton tracks his fingers across his jaw, hooking them underneath and tipping the other man’s head up as he shuffles to stand between his knees, trying to get a better angle on this man who has nearly a foot on him. The side of his hand comes to rest along his cheek as he lines up the  end of the eyeliner with his upper lash line. He can feel the other man’s hot breath puffing steadily across the back of his hand Honestly, Jefferson’s lashes are dark and prominent enough without cosmetic aid, he doesn’t really need this, but for the sake of consistence Alexander starts to trace the soft pencil tip along the curve of his eyelid, darkening the lashes further. He tries to be gentle, as tantalizing as it would be push the pencil hard into Jefferson’s eye socket, hard enough to cause some irritation at least. But despite his gentle, well, hopefully gentle touch, his eyes still start to water. Jefferson squirms under his hands, fidgeting in his seat like a  restless toddler at the dentist.

“You’re fine, I’m barely even touching you.” Hamilton tells him as he goes back to darken up the line. He grips his face tighter, stubble course against his fingers, and leans in a bit more to better see what he’s doing. “You want to apply it to only the upper eyelid, right at the lash line.” he adds softly. “Anything else is gonna look stupid. Hey, are you listening? Because you’re doing this yourself tomorrow.” Jefferson doesn’t respond, in fact, he doesn’t even so much as squirm as the pencil touches his other eye. He’s sitting there, rigid as a livewire with shoulders squared up and tense. Hamilton can’t feel the puff of air on his skin either. He pulls back a little, fixing his companion with an utterly perplexed look. “Jefferson, breathe”

He watches with blatant fascination as the other man’s chest shudders with a freshly drawn breath. How odd, he’s never once, ever, seen Jefferson look so docile. Or maybe uneasy is a better word to describe the way his nostrils flair and the corner of his  right eye twitches,  mouth curved down into a sour grimace. He takes another breath.

“Sorry-’ he mutters shakily. “Sorry”

“Why are you apologizing, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Hamilton replies. The eyeliner is dangling dangerously in his slacked palm, almost ready to clatter to the floor, but he can’t help his amazement and, if he’s being honest, blatant discomfort with the situation. SInce when is Jefferson’s voice ever that faint? Why’s he acting all weird and un-dickish all of the sudden? And why the fuck is he apologizing. He feels compelled to slap him, like he does to his phone when it doesn’t work, like that’ll bring back the virginian’s snarky demeanor, because this timid Jefferson makes his skin crawl.

Jefferson shakes his head, sending a breeze rippling through his curls. “Sorry, I just- don’t like to be crowded. It makes me anxious- people- being around people gives me anxiety. Sorry just-” his feet scramble against the slick floor for a moment, pushing him and his chair away from a perturbed Hamilton. “- just please back up. It’s- I need room to breathe”

Alexander watches him for a moment, studies the way Jefferson’s white knuckle grip on the side of the chair start to ease, the way his eyes are still shut tight. His fingers curl up into a fist.

“What do you have to be anxious about?” the question hisses between his teeth like gas seeping out of a loose valve. It makes the air hard to breathe as it dissipates into the empty space, creating the perfect conditions for ignition. Now all they need is a spark.

Jefferson cracks one eye open to peer questioningly at him. “What are you talking about”

“What do you, mister trust fund baby have to be anxious about? Hu? What do you have to worry about exactly.” his inside are starting to bubble and boil with his rising agitation. Seriously, who does this asshole think he is. “You have everything you're uninspired little mind could think of. You have it all! Smart, rich , good looking, well connected, extra charming and wonderful, or what ever.You don’t have to stress, constantly, crippled by the fear of not doing well enough, because if you fail, you can just turn to your bank account to bail you out. Not everyone is so lucky. Some of us have to claw our way through it, every day, under the ever looming thumb of an unlucky lot in life. So, tell me Jefferson, what do you really have to be anxious about?”

“You know that’s not how anxiety works.” Jefferson hisses back. “My trust fund doesn’t make it any easier for me to walk through a crowd of people, or make me any less terrified to get up on stage and make a fool of myself.”

‘What’s that mean?” What’s Jefferson’s issue with crowds, or people. The man’s a six foot two walking eggplant with a metric ton of buoyant curls. If he wanted to deflect attention from himself, he’s doing a shit job of it.

Jefferson stands, pulling his hair flat against his head before letting bounce back into place. “Nothing, nevermind- it’s not something I want to discuss with you. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

His slouched, weary posture sends a ping of something shooting through Alexander’s lungs, but it feel so foreign that he can’t discern what it is right away. It takes him a moment of rooting around in his messy thoughts to pinpoint exactly what it was. It was sympathy. He feels bad for Jefferson. God, what a shitty thing to feel, how dare his treacherous mind ascribe a feeling to this jackass that only people should get. Jefferson doesn’t deserve his sympathy, he doesn’t. Not after everything that’s happened between them. He thought that years of loathing has smothered out any gentle feelings towards the virginian, but apparently not. How could it, when the paper thin veneer of respect he has for Jefferson’s mind protects him from Alexander’s utter indifference. Indifference is different from hate, or even dislike. If Alexander didn’t care about Jefferson, it’d be easy to brush this sudden, inappropriate ping off and he could go on not caring. But because of his hatred for this man, the feeling of wrongness isn’t easy to shake. God, how disgusting, his stomach is practically rolling in light of this revelation.

“Whatever” he spits out awkwardly. He tears his gaze away from Jefferson so he can grab the mic pack from the counter, and quickly untangles the cord. “Just turn around so I can put this on you.”

Once he’s facing the the opposite wall, Alexander drops the battery into the back pocket of his slacks and starts to run the wire beneath his thin undershirt. The wire runs neatly along the center crease of his, well defined Hamilton learns, back, and up though his massive hair. As he presses tape over his his skin, Alexander feels a shudder race down the Jefferson spine, but, he’s not reading into that now. He doesn’t have the time or the patients to decipher Jefferson’s every little move. It’s probably just the feeling of cold fingers on his warm back that caused it and not the unholy amount of sexual tension they lugde behind them like a duffle bag full of bowling balls. Once he’s all hooked up, the virginian slips on his button up and steps into his dress shoes

They leave the dressing room in tense silence, Jefferson following behind Alexander as they clang as quietly up the metal stairs as they can. But before Jefferson can disappear on stage to join the rest of the actors sitting in the seats listening to Washington’s pre show pep talk, Hamilton stops him with fingers in his belt loop. The other man flashes him a questioning look, which he dismisses with the click of his tongue.

“Calm down, I’m just turning on your mic.” he informs him, fiddling with the mic pack in question. Also he had to stop Jefferson before he went out on stage because his rigid, mechanical walking is making him tense as hell. He know why he’s so twitchy- it's the same thing that’s been bothering him from the start of the whole thing. “Don’t think about the kiss to much.” he tries to sound encouraging, but his tone is a little flat and dull. 

Jefferson snorts “Ah yes, because it’s that simple. Thank you Hamilton. Just don’t think about it! Brilliant, why haven’t I thought of that, that’s much easier then what I was doing.”

“It might help-” Alexander continues, letting the snarky comment slide. “- if you make the kiss more personal. You know, imagine that it’s someone you love, or well in your case, a least someone you want to kiss. That might make you less cringe worthy.” he flips the switch on the pack and shoves it back into his pocket. “Just a thought.”

Jefferson says nothing and a moment later he is out on the stage, getting in his position for the start of act one.

As the show drags on Hamilton sits in the wings on stage right on a table with his show binder propped up on his knee. He chats quietly with Peggy while watching the stage out of the corner of his eye and ushering the actors into position before they miss their cue. The way they whine as he takes their phones from them makes his chest feel like it's full of lead. Not because their childish moaning hurts his feeling or stirs guilt in his chest, but because he fears that Jefferson was right. Maybe all he is is glorified babysitter. Someone to watch the kids so Lafayette and Washington don’t have to. Maybe his position really is superficial. He voices these concerns to Peggy over the head set, using a different line then Burr so he won’t hear them and start lecturing them about how the line is meant for show related business only.

“Don’t let Jeffershit get into your head Alex.” she tells him. “This is exactly what he wants, for you to doubt yourself.”

“Yeah” Hamilton sighs, resting his face in his hand as he watches the stage. The infamous ‘kiss scene’ is coming up quickly. “Yeah you’re probably right, but, still it just feels like everyone else is rushing past me and I’m nearly drowning just trying to keep up.”

“Now you sound like Burr.” she quips gently.

A grin cracks over his face. “I suppose I do.”   
“Hammy listen, this theatre would fall apart without you. Your like- the angry little glue monster that holds us all together. Who cares if you don’t get a curtain call. I don’t get a curtain call, who cares”

He does, but he doesn’t say it. Instead he sighs. “I guess.”

“Ooo- here comes the kiss” Peggy squeals.

Hamilton refocuses his attention on the stage just in time for Jefferson to finish his last line. He watches with his lungs all tangled up in strings as he crosses the stage with purpose. He reaches Eliza, who in comparison to him looks like a porcelain doll yet she stands strong and unwavering as he bears down on her. For the first time, there’s no hesitation. Jefferson cups his hands around Eliza’s cheeks, presses his thumbs swiftly over her mouth and draws her in for the kiss. It’s seamless, passionate and exactly what it should look like. But then- why is his stomach twisting at the sight of the two of them locked together?

Peggy is whistling in his ear. “Damn, he finally got it.” she cheers. “We’re you guys practicing in the dressing room or something?”

Hamilton scoffs. “No. I just told him to make it more personal.”

“Hu- wonder who he’s thinking about then. He doesn’t really strike me as boyfriend material.”

“Yeah....” he trails off, watching the two of them saunter off stage left. There, Jefferson will get his face stamped with it a dozen fake kisses for the next scene by one of the techies. He wonders too, who it was Jefferson thought of that brought such raw passion out of him. And when he catches the virginians eye as he’s cleaning up after rehearsal, Alexander, in light of all this new information, can't help but wonder what part of his arrogant smirk is plastic spackled to his face.


	4. You Suck so Passionately

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last time Alexander let's Lee handle the props

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Thursday once again!  
> Alright, a little bit of this chapter was inspired by a tumblr promt, actually, the whole fic was kinda inspired by this one scene! Let me know what you thought of this chapter!  
> Big thanks to my beta readers Ham-for-Ham and Exadorlion!!!!

“I swear, if one more person asks me where the tape is, I’m going to break my binder over my knee and light the theater on fire.” Alexander grumbles to Peggy though his head set.

She chuckles. “Someone's grumpy today”

He mumbles out something almost like a swear and leans back against the edge of a nearby table. Only twenty minutes into opening night and five times a freshman has shuffled up to him and asked him where to find the tape. Why they need so much tape he’s not sure. He feels that he should be more concerned with what they’re doing with it, hopeful no one's been taped into the bathroom again. He’ll have to investigate later, make sure everything is alright. Honestly, he can’t leave these kids alone for five seconds without them getting into something, or dropping a whole shelves worth of  two by fours in the scene shop. The ever glamorous job of a theater technician. Fuck his life.

Truth be told, he’s been a sour mood for the past three days. Ever since he thought that Jefferson might be right, about him being nothing more than a babysitter with a clipboard. The ever pretentious southern playboy keeps reminding him of it, everytime Alexander goes down to do his  make up. Jefferson refuses to do it himself, claiming that he still has no idea how, the asshole. And Herc won’t help because he can’t stand the virginian, and  frankly, it's not his job. No, as Jefferson frequently reminds him, it's Alexander’s job to take care of the ‘housekeeping’. As a result, he’s been in a bitter mood the past couple of days, and his friends have noticed.

Peggy sighs into her headset. “How long has it been since you’ve gotten some action Hambone?”

Hamilton flicks his script to the next page, watching the show from the cutines with disinterest. Listening to Angelica yell ‘condoms’ across the stage is only funny so many times. “Why does it matter?” he responds dryly

“Because you’ve been a massive buzz kill the last couple of days. I was a afraid you were gonna break Burr’s fingers last night.”

“Well, he should know not to touched my hashbrowns if he values his digits.” he tosses back

“See,” she interjects. “You’re so fucking high strung. You need a good lay”

Alexander rubs a hand across his forehead. “I don't have time to date, not with the show, and midterms. I can’t make another time commitment.”

“I’m not saying you have to get into anything long term, “ he  hears her shifting about in her chair. “ but you need to go and get plowed, like, at the minimum.”

“Why do you automatically assume that I bottom?” he snaps.   
Her laugh is distorted by the static of the mic. “You’re so tiny, it’s just hard to imagine anything else.”

“Alright then,,,” he mumbles.

He hears her sigh. “Seriously though Alex, it’s been , what like, four months. You gotta go out there an-”

Suddenly, pounding feet are racing in Alexander’s direction, the harsh smack of sneaker soles on plain hardwood makes him tense. He jerks his head in the direction of the sound, ready to rant and rave at whoever it is making so much noise to cut it out, lest the audience hear. But when he looks up, it’s Laurens who’s bouncing in his direction, dressed in all blacks: a short sleeve t shirt, jeans and a beanie pulled over his mess of caramel curls. He looks flustered, so Alexander quickly mutes his headset and stands, just as the other boy reaches him. 

“John wha-” 

“We lost the stamp.” he interjects, breathlessly, latching one hand around Alexander’s forearm.

Alexander blinks at him in the low, blue light of the backstage. “What happened now?”

“The stamp.” John waves his hands about wildly as he searches for his words. “The stamp thingy, for the kisses, the kiss stamp, for Jefferson, for the next screen. We can’t find it. Lee fucking lost it. Burr and I were looking but, we can’t find it. We need it”

Hamilton glances past Laurens, over his shoulder towards the stage, where Jefferson and Eliza are about to ‘kiss’, right before they exit stage left and Jefferson gets his face stamped up with fake kiss marks. With the stamp they can’t find. Fuckin-

A wave of panic comes crashing down over Alexander as he watches Jefferson start briskly across the stage, like the spray from his cold shower head. Clammy sweat starts to bead at his hairline.  They have exactly three minutes and twenty five seconds before he walks off stage, not even close to enough time to look for that stupid stamp. Ice cold fingers fly up to grab at his pulled back hair, loosening it from his ponytail. What could he do? He has to come up with something quick if he wants the next couple of lines of dialogue to make any sense. In light of his recent revelation, he’s positive that Jefferson won’t be able to  improv around them.

Through the jolt of panic a little light flips on his his head, sparking, certainly not a great idea, but an idea nonetheless. He pushes past a wide eyed John towards the prop table. Sitting on top of  it are a few extra tubes of lipstick. He snatches up the most violent shade of red he can find amongst them, the leaves the way John came, though the scene shop. It connects both sides of the stage so cast and crew can pass between the two  halfs unnoticed. He books it to stage left, feet hammering on the cement floor as he runs through the dark, cluttered room. A thin strip of fairy lights taped to the floor is the only thing to light his path, and they’re not nearly enough. He nearly trips over some ply wood, the corner of the panel hooking on the toe of his shoe, causing him to stumble. The planks rattle loudly and Alexander squeezes his eyes shut for  brief moment to send up an empty prayer that they’re wouldn’t go toppling over, that he won’t eat shit on the unforgiving stone floor, and that no one heard the hollow clatter, before racing off again. He comes skidding around the corner into stage left, a  sliver of stage floor hidden but curtains.  Burr is pacing the far wall as he tumbles in, out of breath and frazzled.

The moment he spots Alexander he comes striding briskly over.

“I was calling for you” Burr tells him in a harsh whisper. “I was asking if you’d seen the stamp.”

Hamilton doesn’t have time for a lecture right now, so he mutters out a paper thin apology and pops the cap from the lipstick.

Burr huffs. “You would have known if you were ever on the right channel.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he switches  his headset to the proper channel, the one Burr uses, and flashes the number at the other man. “Happy now.” on stage he can hear the music cue that signifies that Jefferson and Eliza just finished their scene. Thirty seconds.

He rolls the obnoxious red lipstick over his lips, making sure there’s an excessive amount of it, then hands the tube to Burr. He looks incredibly confused but doesn’t question him, instead waiting to see what he’ll do next. Alexander’s plan might not be the most well thought out,  but it’ll get the job done. He did what he could with the time he had, therefore no one should blame him for what comes next.

Jefferson and Eliza push past the curtains  to a rigorous set of applause from the audience. A few techies snag Eliza and drag her off for her costume change, meanwhile, Alexander races up to Jefferson. The virginian squints at him in the dark.

“Hamilton? What the hell are you-?”

“There’s no time to explain.” he cuts him off, latching onto Jefferson’s sleeve. “The stamp is gone, hold still.”

“Say what?”

Without a further word of warning, Alexander yanks on  his arm, dragging Jefferson down and into a kiss. Again, not the most intuitive plan. 

The taller man makes a weird whine, like a kicked puppy and tries to wrench himself back, but Alexander’s body is buzzing with misplaced adrenaline, so he clings even tighter,  wrapping an arm around his neck and winding a hand into the front of his shirt to hold him steady. Hamilton focuses on making his lips the perfect kiss shape, on pressing hard enough to make the color read on stage, all the while Jefferson squirms under his hold.  Alexander then moves to plant kiss marks over every visible inch of skin he can find, pressing each mark long and hard so that the scarlet lipstick stains the other man’s cheeks, his jaw, he even leaves a few on his neck for good measure. Once he’s done that he let’s his arms fall away and starts to frump up Jefferson’s shirt front. He wrinkles that fabric with  his hands, pulls a few buttons out, untucks a bit of his shirt, so that it looks like he was just caught making out under the staircase Then he turns him around. 

“Go go go  _ gogogogogogo _ !” he chants in a stage whisper, shoving a silent Jefferson back out towards the stage, quickly before he misses his cue. He goes stumbling on his way, stealing an unreadable glance back at Alexander before disappearing between the curtains.

It’s not until the sound of appreciative whistling meets his ears that Hamilton allows himself to relax. The tension in his shoulder’s fades and the  sweat on his upper lip starts to dry. He staggers back to the far wall, joining Burr as he leans back against the  black painted brick. A small relieved smile breaks out over his lips, he casts a smug glance Burr’s way.

“What?” he asks dully.

Hamilton shrugs, reaching into his back pocket for a tissue. “Oh nothing. You can thank me for saving the show later.” he replies coyly, wiping the lipstick from his mouth.

“By making out with Jefferson?”

Alexander’s hand stalls. “Wha-?”

Burr doesn’t lift his eyes from his script, but the corner of his mouth does twitch with some glee. 

Meanwhile, Hamilton’s breaking out in a panicked sweat once more. Had he-? He quickly reassess everything that just happened and, yup. Yup he totally just made out with Jefferson. 

“Oh fuuck” he trails off, peering at Jefferson between the curtains, only to find him already staring. The eye contact is like sticking a fork in an outlet. Hamilton shifts out of the other man’s line of sight, shrinking into the shadows. He kissed Jefferson. He kissed him and he didn’t even get to enjoy it“Oh fuck. He’s going to kill me.”

“Probably.” Burr agrees.

He shoots his friend a look, before sweeping his hair out of his face. “I’m going to hide.” he mutters as he brushes past him.

He can hear the teasing lilt of Burr’s smug voice as he says “I hope that works out for you.”

Alexander scampers back stage right, heart doing laps round and round in his chest. As far as his bad plans go, kissing Jefferson for a few lines of dialogue probably makes the top three. It happened so damn fast too. He didn’t actually get to enjoy it like he should have either. He finally had an excuse to kiss those infuriatingly distracting lips and he blew it, didn’t even savor the feel of it, and he’ll never get another shot at them. Because Jefferson's going to kill him. He’s going to fucking kill him. If he can find him anyway.

Currently he's loitering around the prop table in the dark. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to avoid Jefferson the rest of the show, then slip out before he even realizes he’s left, and Alexander can live another day.

“Intermission,” Burr informs him over the headset. “Jefferson just stepped off stage.”

“Does he looked pissed?” Hamilton asks.  He’s not usually one to run from a fight, he’s got the bruises to prove it, but this is different. He kissed Jefferson, like on his mouth and stuff. And his whole face area, and his neck and- _ oh god. _ The embarrassment might kill him before Jefferson even gets a chance. Once again his dumb brain has gotten him into trouble.

“Are you stage right?” Burr replies

“Yeah.”

“He’s looking for you.”

“Don’t tell him where I am.” He warns.

“Too late.”

“Fuck!” Hamilton rubs his sweaty, clammy palms down the front of his jeans. “You’re the worst roommate in the entire fucking world. When he murders me, that blood will be on your hands. I hope you’re fucking happy with yourself.”

He hears Burr sigh heavily into the mic. “Don’t you think you’re being a tad dramatic Alexander?”

“Never once, have I ever be dramatic in my entire life.” he snaps back.

“Oh my god.” Burr mumbles, but Alexander’s not paying attention any more. Instead he scans the crowd milling backstage for the familiar floof of hair. Now would not be a great time to let the virginian sneak up on him like he does so often. No, Hamilton needs to be prepared to throw the first punch, if necessary.

“Burr, when I die, I’m entrusting you with the duty of publish all of my writings.” He mumbled hurriedly.  “All of them, everything on my laptop, promise me.”

“Yes, fine whatever....” Burr trials off, clearly uninterested. A nagging feeling tells him that Burr’s probably lying. 

He draws in a breath to call him out, make him swear to publish his written works in memory of his short, ambition  driven life, when finger wrap around his upper arm in a hold like iron.

Hamilton loses a high pitched shout that was in no why a shriek and drops his binder in shock. His eyes dart up to meet the gaze of an oddly emotionless Thomas Jefferson.

_ How? _

Desperately he tries to tug his arm free, but the taller man is having none of it. Jefferson turns, dragging a struggling Alexander behind him.

“Let go of me.” he hisses at the other man, clawing at his hand to try and pry  his fingers from his arm. Surly, he’s faster than Jefferson. If he could just get free, he could make a mad dash from the bathrooms, lock himself in a stall. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this level of aggression.

Jefferson is marching briskly away from the low babble of people and the duly buzzing lights, further into the stage wing, and over to the catwalk stairs.

He’s actually going to kill him, Alexander thinks numbly as they ascend the creaking staircase. Jefferson is going to throw him off the balcony. Hamilton going to splat on the stage like the kid from that story. Nothing more than a red smear across the black paneling, with no name, no recognition. Will he be forced to pace the empty halls of the dressing room after? A silent ghost, made everyday to relive the fact that his life amount to nothing more than a misspelled name in the back of the program? Truly nothing could  be worse than that. 

And still they climb the old metal steps, Hamilton struggling to keep from stumbling as Jefferson all but drags him up each step. And still he says nothing. They creak along the rickly platforms with trepidation curling in Alexander’s gut, cold and slimy like a dead fish resting somewhere in his chest. Once they’re about half way across Jefferson finally stops. Hamilton peers gingerly over the rail, down to the brightly lit stage floor.

This is it.

But instead of hands at his back, shoving him to his demise, Alexander finds himself being wheel around by a firm grip on his shoulders. The suddenness of it makes him want to shout, but the sound is cut short on the breath, stifled by something warm and wet being shoved down his throat. Jefferson pushes him back until he slams into the door behind him, with one hand on his shoulder, the other sneaking its way up to curl into the downy hair at the base of his skull. Long fingers yank and pull until the band in his hair snaps with a sharp pop of breaking rubber and it all comes cascading down around his ears. Stupidly, Hamilton opens his mouth to tell him off, like he thinks he can get a word out when he can practically feel the other man checking his back molars for cavities, but he tries nonetheless. It’s instinct really, a habit to mouth off when Jefferson’s being annoying, but being a smart ass is proving quite difficult at the moment.

It takes a stuttering heartbeat for his mind to catch up to the current situation. It doesn't seem like Jefferson is going to kill him, unless he’s planning to suffocate him or something. Once that conclusion has been reached,  another instinct overtakes him, one that still has to do with the virginian and his stupid mouth, but it’s verd down a completely different avenue. Alexander whines, high and needy in the back of his throat and takes a fist full of Jefferson’s shirt front in his hand, dragging him closer so his head isn't tilted at this horribly uncomfortable angle.

He’s never kissed someone that feels like the rainforest. Open mouths swelteringly hot, swapping muggy breath in hurried, almost panicked burst. Jefferson growls, pressing Alexander harder into the door, pressing the air from him lungs. Their teeth clack together harshly in their frenzy, somehow weirdly sexy when the action is a conscious one and not the fumbling accident of awkward virgins. Hamilton mutters a string of curses under his ragged breath, all the while the taller man nips at his lower lip until it starts to sting.

“Is this alright?” Jefferson pants out, dragging his blazing lips down to Alexander’s jaw line.

The  immigrant nods, afraid that if he opens his mouth, he'll lose what little air he has left to the vacuum of space. Vaguely, he wonders if black holes give off the same sweltering heat that Jefferson’s towering frame impresses upon him. They must, with all the stars they swallow up, they must have some sort of heat. The  fingers of his free hand splay against the presser at his back, nails scrabbling against cheap, fraying wood. Not the cool metal of the lighting booth, thank god. No, it’s the door to the other little room tuck away up here, away from prying eyes. His fingertips snag on the simply bulb of the knop, he jerks it to the left.

They’re really doing this.

In his haste, Alexander forgets the step up into the cramped, foul room. Lucky Jefferson’s got a firm enough grasp on his waist to keep him upright, and they stumbling inside blindly, one after the other. The space is dark and damp and wrecks of stall sex and chaky cosmetics, but nothing about this scenario is glamours, so why should the location be anything more the seedy. They fumble about, locked together so tightly Hamilton thinks he may never be able to free his hands from the other man’s crazy, raven hair. Eventually, his knees clip on something solid and the smaller man is sent careening back, sure to drag Jefferson along with him. He hit something stiff but soft enough to keep him from breaking his ass on the wooden floor, the virginian landing heavily on top of his smaller frame, which steals away his breath, but not his enthusiasm. He cants his eager hips up viciously. They only have about fifteen minutes. Bearly enough time, even if Jefferson is all he makes himself out to be.

Hamilton peels open eyes that fell shut of their own accord as he pulls back just enough to free his aching mouth. Seems they’ve landed on some broken sofa, the front leg on the right side is missing entirely, creating slope and honestly, he doesn’t what to think about how many other people have done it on this couch to break the leg clean off. What he focuses on now is the ravenous mouth descending on his pulse, inquisitive, hungry lips seeking out his weak points. With anybody else the act would feel tender, exploratory, investigational, but with Jefferson it's more like a game of Risk. A calculated grab for territory as the other man claims dominion over his flesh. And like a speeding comet veering off course, Alexander is helpless to free himself from the pull of his massive gravity, even if he wanted to. No matter how fast he goes, the pull of Jefferson is just too great. It drags him closer to the pinnacle of demise with every passing second. Alexander can only hope that their collision will insure mutually  assured destruction. But then he remembers that a singularity holds no substance, just excessive mass. A warm, aching mass pressed right to the crease of his thigh. 

Alexander whines again, and Jefferson settles on a patch of innocent skin he’d like to pillage. He latches onto the sweat slick flesh on the underside of Hamilton’s throat and bites hard enough to break the skin.

He hisses in response, fighting hard for leverage over the undistilled need pumping like radiation in his veins. He’s heart is nuclear reactor in his chest and it feels like it's about to overheat. 

“No marks” he stutters out. God, he’s so desperate for it. He’s always wonder what it might be like, what it would feel like to finally have Jefferson like this. It's as violent as expected, and still the overwhelming lust blindsided him

Jefferson ignores him, or maybe just doesn’t hear him  over his own apparent desire to see this through, because he keeps licking and  biting and sucking at the spot  while Alexander squirms beneath him. It takes two hands tugging his head back by the hair to get him to glance up. 

“Nothing above the collar, dumbass” Hamilton warns, though it would sound more threatening if his voice was more than a strangled whimper.

Jefferson rolls his eyes. He proceeds to untuck Hamilton’s shirt, pushing it up until it wrinkles under his arms, exposing his bare, fluttering stomach to the virginian’s sleazy stare. 

Were he given the time to feel self conscious, Alexander would have blushed at the comparison of his awkwardly shaped frame to the taller man’s sculpted chest, but almost immediately, Jefferson is trailing angry kisses across his belly. Lower and  lower, following the thin wisps of hair below his navel to the straining button of his jeans.

Hamilton chokes out an exaggerated moan, jerking his hips up in silent plea. He’s lost track of the time, but he’s sure they mustn’t have much left with all this bullshit teasing. Maybe this asshole could just hurry up and suck him off already?

But just to smite him, it would seem, Jefferson takes the precious moments to brand a hickey into the tender flesh of his lower belly, dragging down his jeans just enough to sear the mark over the peak of his left hip bone. Every time he walks, Hamilton with feel the waistband of his jeans press into it and be reminded of this. Of the hot, wrank air, and long, sinfully long fingers carefully pulling him from his boxers. 

He’s not sure whether it's the foreplay leading up to it, or the years of unabashed tension finally finding validation,but when Jefferson’s lips wrap hesitantly around the head of his weeping cock Hamilton nearly sobs. His head flops back uselessly over the arm of the crooked couch, headset sliding off his ears, and he winds his finger tightly into the virginian’s hair, knuckles digging into his scalp.

Jefferson sinks onto him with a garbled, spitty moan as he take Hamiton in deep into the heat of his mouth. It’s gross and too wet, Jefferson is practically drooling around him like his dick is a jawbreaker, and yet Alexander is still seeing double.  It’s like being caught on a swing, every downwards motion makes his stomach lurch. Jefferson’s tough darts out to lick a stripe along the underside of his shaft and Hamilton groans.

He fist his hair a little tighter. “You better swallow.” 

Jefferson flicks his gaze upward, hazy eyes peering up at him though long, perfect lashes. Slowly, he pulls off, stretch swollen lips slipping into a cocky little grin that Hamilton desperately wants to slap off his face. 

“Why Hamilton, so dominating. I didn’t realize.” he says sweetly. Without warning, he brushes his fingertips lightly over his balls.

Alexander gasps at the unexpected attention. “No, you fucking prick. You’re in costume, and I’m wearing all black, we can’t afford to make a mess.”

“Whatever you say,” Jefferson winks up at him. He then lays a kiss to the throbbing head of his cock and eases the length back into his mouth. 

Alexander longs to make him choke on it, that would wipe the slimy grin from his face. If he shoved his cock so far down Jefferson’s throat that tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. Next time. If next time is even on the table, that is.

While he blows him messily, Jefferson keeps his eyes trained on Alexander’s, holding his gaze with an unspoken challenge that Hamilton dare not lose. Jefferson's eyes are blow wide open, deep black pits rimmed with a thin strip on luminescent carmel at the outer edge. The last remnants of light, before it’s sucked down into the endless void, even it not fast enough to outrun the pull of those black holes. Alexander’s chest heaves as he watches him slide up and down his shaft, the motion leaves him teetering on the edge, until he can’t fight it anymore.

He slips, falling head first over the event horizon, allowing Jefferson to utterly devour him. He’s breathless and weightless, rushing though the vast emptiness of space for both a million years and a single second. Then just as suddenly, he’s thrown back into reality, gasping and moaning at an embarrassing pitch as he is slowly eased off his high by the other man’s warm hands. 

Slowly, Alexander blinks away the euphoria of his orgasm, watching with dull, unfocused eyes as Jefferson does his best to swallow him down.  The little bit he misses spills from the corner of his mouth, where it mixes with spit and dribbles down his chin. Just the sight of it makes him whimper with longing. This man, he’s got no damn right to look so tantalizing every second of his life. 

Heavy, post coital breathing is the only sound to permeate the room until Hamilton kicks Jefferson off of him. There’s an awkward moment where he struggles to pulls up his jeans, fumbling to hook the button in his haste. Once he’s sorted himself out, he staggers to his feet, Jefferson follows suit. Times up, and whatever strange wave of desire that overtook the other man is gone now, leaving them both lingering in this too cramped, too hot space with nothing to say.

Alexander shoots Jefferson a quickly look out of the corner of his eye, then reaches into his back pocket for some tissues.

“Here.” He shoves a wade of them into his hands. “Clean yourself up”

Jefferson takes them gingerly, and Hamilton all but flees from the room. The catwalks chatter under his hurried feet, whispering his secret back and forth. 

He feel a bit guilt, he supposes, for just leaving Jefferson like that, but it’s not enough to make himself sick or anything. If they had more time Alexander would have gladly returned the favor, curious to see for himself if the virginian is as well endowed below the belt as he is everywhere else. But time is sometime they’re in short supply of at the moment, and Jefferson already thinks him a loathsome asshole so really, what respect is he losing.

Once back on the ground floor, Hamilton shuffles over to his dropped binder, still laying on the cool floor, and scoops it up. Actors are scurrying  back to places, the clock hanging on the far wall tells him it's five minutes to lights up, and he breaths out a sigh of relief he didn’t realize he was still clutching. Still a little jelly legged, Hamilton spots Burr in the crowd of faces and drops himself on the table beside him.

“Did you find the stamp?” he asks, pulling his hair back into a tight ponytail as he does. Only to remember that Jefferson snapped his hair tie. He let’s all fall back around his shoulders with a huff.

Burr bobs his head curtly. “Yes, we did.”

“Good, good good good” he nods along in agreement.

“And Alexander-”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe turn off your headset during intermissions from now on.”

Alexander feels the color in his cheeks seep out into the table top benight him. He scrambles to adjust the headset back into place “Did you-?”

Burr shrugs. “Unfortunately.” he then turns so that he’s looking him dead in the eyes. Burr’s only a few months older then him, and yet his judgment stare makes him look like a perpetually disappointed father. “I won’t tell anyone, so don’t worry about that. But Alexander- just this once, think before you leap. You and Jefferson are gunpowder and a matchbook, it won’t take much for someone to get hurt.”

To this, Hamilton scoffs, dropping his gaze down to his script.

What does Burr know, anyway?


	5. I've Been Meaning to Ask You-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander tries to prove a point. It goes about as well as one would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're about halfway through this story already, can you believe it?! This chapter is definitely the calm before the storm ;p  
> Huge thanks to my wonderful beta reader Ham-for-Ham for kicking my ass on this chapter so its that best in can be! <333  
> As always I love to hear from y'all in the comments!!

“I’m just saying” John presses, his arms bogged down with empty liquor bottles. “That they have the best waffles”

Alexander rolls his eyes in responses as they walk, side by side, across the stage to the left side of the theater.  There’s a little paint flecked sink set into the wall backstage where they can fill the bottles for the show. Water is much cheaper than booze after all.

John stands only four inches taller than him, he forgets how much a difference four inches can make when you walk at someone's side, he has to crane his neck just a hair so that his soul rending deadpanned stare has maximum effect. 

“And I'm simply saying that you have an unhealthy obsession with Denny’s. They’re food isn't that great, dude”   
John scoffs. “What else is open at one in the morning anyway, it’s not like us poor college boys have much choice anyways.”

“I guess” he grumbles back. Taking a few bottles from Lauren’s arms, he helps to neatly lay them out on the nearby worktable by the sink. “But honestly, we get it practically every night. Couldn’t we get like some Walmart sushi or something.”

“Why do you hate the three dollar waffles Alex?” John asks, flashing him big, puppy dog eyes.

“Because they killed my dog.” Hamilton retorts.

John snorts like a pig, or a housewife who’s had one too many glasses of chardonnay, and dumps the rest of his bottles unceremoniously into the sink. “Dude, what the fuck?” he brushes some loose hair behind his ear. 

Alexadner flashes him a shiteating grin, wiggling his eyebrows for added effect. This causes the other man to roll his eyes

“Seriously, how are you in such a good mood before having to deal with Jeffershit?” he asks,

the stupid smile slowly slips from Alexander mouth, leaving his slack lips to ease down into a slight grimace. His mood has drastically improved over the past week, and while his friends can’t fathom how, they’ve noticed the change. How he doesn’t snap at as viously at the freshmen and actually seems to sleep at night now.

It’s been over a week since the ‘fuck room’ incident, and in that time he and Jefferson  have blown each other on six separate occasions. Hamilton finally got a chance to repay him for first time the next day. He grabbed the virginian during intermission and dropped to his knees in one of the unused costume closest in the basement. Twice more did Jefferson suck him off slowly in the ‘fuck room’, and one terrifying time in the perfectly public dressing room. He’d put up a fuss about his make up until everyone left, fidgeting and huffing like a brat until the room was empty, then undid the buckle on Alexander’s belt  with an annoyingly toothy grin. Alexander was so sure that someone was going to walk in on them that he could hardly focus on the wet stroke of his tongue.

Of course they don’t talk about it. Because if they talk, they fight and it's very hard to make a convincing  argument when one is choking on cock, so neither even make an attempt.  They shouldn’t have to talk about it anyway. It's just sex, that much is obvious, for Hamilton it’s stress relief but he’s not sure what Jefferson is getting out of it. Maybe it’s wish fulfilment, he certainly goes about blowing him with the enthusiasm of someone who’s thought about it a lot. Nothing about the low murmur of jean zippers is romantic and their moans don’t settle like morning dew on grass afterwards, it’s never calm. It’s fumbling fingers and hurried hands sorting themselves out as they scamper conspicuously back into places. Its bruise covering his chest and teeth makes branded to his hips. They don’t linger. Aside from that first night, where roving, hungry lips made sure they were on the same page, they don’t kiss. Not anywhere above the naval, anyway. It’s not romantic, it’s not that complicated and Alexander knows that Jefferson sees it too, so there’s no need to discuss their relationship- no- arrangement is a better word for it. He’d rather cut out his tongue then sit down and have a heart to heart with his personal waking nightmare turned personal walking wet dream about feelings that neither of them have. Better to let the notion rot away to nothing. 

So instead of breaching the subject he simply shrugs off Lauren’s question. Best that as few people know about this as possible. Burr is one thing. Alexander can handle the judgmental stares boring holes into his back as he climbs into bed, his roommate thinking lowly of his habits is nothing new, but John is a different matter. He wouldnt understand, wouldnt understand that his and Jefferson’s sexcapades mean nothing. He loathes the man just as much as Hamilton, the simple action of spending anytime with the arrogant virginian fuck would be taken as a personal insult. Alexander doesn’t need the lecture, so he keeps his mouth shut for once and leans against the counter.

John flicks on the sink. It sputters for a moment, gritty water sputtering out in sporadic burst before a steady stream begins pouring from the old, paint flecked spout. 

“Oh yeah, heard Gwash raving about how great the kiss mark stuff on Jefferson looked opening night.

Alexander tucks his arms against his chest. “He was raving?”

“You know what I mean, “ John retorts. “There was a slightly excited inflection in his voice. Said he wants them to look like that every night.”

“Ha!” yeah- no; that’ll never be happening again. Hamilton slips his phone from his pocket to check the time, then groans, lolling his head back as he does. “Time for me to go play personal assistant again.” 

“Poke him in the eye for me” John shoots back as Alexander pushes off of the counter’s edge, treading wearily down to the dressing room.

 

Alexander both adores and despises the dressing room based on the simple fact that it seems that only the schools most attractive students are in the theater program. The only problem with that is that he’s so aggressively bi it makes his head spin. All the girls with their rounded hips, long legs, and soft looking hair. They flit about the huge, cellar like room half dressed, compiling about the stench of BO and aggressive ax body spray with skin of every shade so smooth and vibrant they look like oil paintings. Meanwhile the guys are all built like fucking Greek statues, with strong backs and defined shoulders, hardly wearing more than compressions shorts that flaunt lean thighs. All of them strong and smooth like marble.  No matter where he looks his eyes are assaulted with such gorgeous individuals. It’s incredibly unfair, especially since Alexander is a bundle of lanky limbs and knobby joints usually wrapped up in an oversized hoodie to hide his doughy center. 

“I still don’t see why tights are necessary.” comes Jefferson’s voice from his right.

Hamilton sighs. He has not even taken a step into the room and Jefferson is complaining like the entitled rich boy he is. He turns his head, ready to tell him to stop whining.

The towering virginian hovers by the clothes rack, one hand placed firmly on his bare hip. Jefferson, in just his boxer briefs, swing  a pair of tights from his hand with his broad chest on display for any roving eye.

Hamilton makes a weird, flailing gesture with his arm in response, cusing how easily he swoons over a nice set of abs. “Just sit down, and  throw a fucking shirt on while you're at it.”

Jefferson’s expression shifts into something more sly, corners of his lush lips gradually curling up into a sickly, stomach churning smile. “Something wrong Hamilton?” 

He absolutely refuses to let him get the better of him. “Yeah, the longer you screw around, the longer this takes, and I do have other things to do so that this show can run smoothly.” he snaps back, unclipping and clipping his headset’s battery pack to his front pant pocket.

The taller man merely chuckles and snatchs a hanger with a neatly pressed pale blue button up from the rack. “Get a freshman to do it, it can’t be that hard if you're in charge of it.”  he then drops himself into a folding chair tucked away in the corner, silently motioning for Alexander to follow him.

Hamilton bites down on his tongue to keep the flurry of insults at bay. Nows not the time.  Not when a dozen or so pairs of eyes keep flickering in their direction every few seconds or so. Besides, he a professional, if he can’t uphold this guise of priority around Jefferson, how could he ever hope to work with other elitist, asinine actors out on broadway. Assuming he could make a living off of this. 

With a huff that sounds like air being punched out of a plastic bag, he drops into the chair in front of Jefferson while the other man carefully buttons up his shirt. He grabs a sponge and hooks his thumb under the man’s chin and yet again takes up the insulting task of personal assistant. 

“This is the last time I do this for you.” he warns. Jefferson scoffs at the threat as if Hamilton just claimed he would drop out of school. It’s just unlikely but he says it again because he wants to make a point. “I swear this is the last time, after today you’re gonna have to figure it out for yourself because i'm done.” it not true, he’ll be back tomorrow to cake the creamy foundation to the other man’s face. But he enjoys the semblance of control the words give him, like he really has a choice in the matter.

Then they lapse into a cold silence. Usually silence disturbs Alexander. He hates the void moments between two ideas, between words and actions, between scene changes and thoughts. Silence is a space waiting to be filled with noise, with laughter and music, like the blank margins of a notebook or the white at the bottom of a nearly finished paper, begging  for more words. Usually he seeks to fill the silences, but with Jefferson he finds no greater relief than when the words stop flowing. Well, not so much the words, but the insults. He likes the words, enjoys the challenge of overcoming them. But outside of class, with no common point to debate, the carefully crafted words of two quick minds turn to mushy, thoughtless jabs. He instead fills the silence with the tap of his foot on the tiles.

Jefferson’s face twitched, a little tick in the right corner of his mouth. “You’re hands are freezing.” he comments plainly.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Hamilton mutters back. “I have bad circulation. If it bothers you, do your own make up, fuckwad.”

He hums, sinking back in his seat just enough that Alexander has to lean in closer. Dick, Hamilton thinks bitterly. “Nah, I think I like it better when you do it.”Jefferson  pauses thoughtful for a moment, as if the next sentence requires contemplation. “It looks more professional when you do it.”

Was- was that a compliment? Like a real, not in anyway backhanded, genuine compliment? “Gross” he hisses back. He’s not equipt to handle compliments from Jefferson, not even accidental ones. “Just- don’t”

“Don’t make it weird Alexander. Just accept that you make a cute little secretary or whatever.”

His nails start to bite into the soft sponge in his fist. “I’m not a secretary, and I’m not your assistant either.” he growls back

“Really?” Jefferson counters. He leans forward, right into Hamilton’s personal space and breaths: “Cause you suck cock well enough.”

Hamilton shoves him back with a grunt of disgust. “Shut the fuck up.”

The other man chuckles and reclines back into his chair with bright, teasing eyes drinking in Alexander’s frazzled expression. Nothing's really changed between them. Desperate to be done with this arduous, soul rending process as ever, he clamps fingers around Jefferson chin and jerks his head up and to the right. That’s when he spots the discolored splotch of skin on his neck. It's so big and fresh looking, purple bleeding into crimson under the other man’s dark skin, that Hamilton’s shocked it took him this long to notice it. A hickey he definitely wouldn’t have been dumb enough to leave that high up on his neck, right under his jaw.

His lips press tight, annoyance apparent in the thin, white line that’s now his mouth. “What did I say, you can’t have marks above your collar during the show.” he mutters viciously through teeth clenched tight in a snarl. His insides writhe like a dozen creeping snakes. With the last bit of his composure he moves to cover up the mark with foundation. 

Jefferson makes a little noise of disinterest with his tongue. “It couldn’t be helped”

“Alright-” with his feet firmly planted on the tile he shoves his chair back, then shoots up from his seat.    
Jefferson stares at him, agast. “What?”

“Alright- figure it out for yourself then.” he tosses the mocha stained sponge down on the counter. “Figure it out because Im done, Im leaving”

“Hamilton come on” he fidgets in his seat.

“Nope” he replies, watching the other man’s face grow more worried with every step he backpedals. “Nope. You're so smart I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Alexander wait” Jefferson tries again, its halfhearted at best. But Hamilton’s already halfway out the door. 

Two middle fingers raised high in the air signal his exit. 

 

He retreats upstairs to help Burr get the mics hooked up, sulking with his brow casting a dark shadow over his face. Not even Eliza’s kind smile as he tapes up her mic can make him less- whatever the hell he’s feeling right now.  Alexander is getting so tired of fighting that arrogant southern playboy all the time. Every second feels like an agonizing uphill battle, because Jefferson, that goddamn prick, can’t just do as he says. He’s not even mad about the hickey. He and Jefferson aren't a thing, he can fuck whoever he wants. They’re not exclusive or anything like that, god no, disgusting. But at least Jefferson could have the decency keep it private. And why should he be the only one to get something more on the side? If Jefferson can spend his nights with someone else, why couldn’t he?

“Hey, Eliza wait!”

She pauses and turns, gently, her low braid swaying against her back.

Quickly Alexander jogs over to her, his sweating hands shaking with nerves. He wipes them down the front of his jeans as she tilts her head questioningly to the right.

“Did you need something Alexander?”

“No, I mean-” he stammers, trying to keep himself from fidgeting with the cords of his headset. “Yes, well- I wanted to ask you....” Damn his stiff tongue. The way the dim light dances off her dark eyes leaves him speechless. As he struggles to make the words go, he cast his gaze around, as if the proper words might be etched on the underside of the exposed vents, or the backs of doors. That’s how he spots Jefferson slinking up the stairs from the dressing room, carrying a handful of make up and looking utterly pissed. They lock eyes, and the other man’s face starts contorting into a snarl. Before h can bark out anything rude however, Alexander quickly takes Eliza’s hand into his own. “Eliza, would you want to go get some ice cream after the show tonight?” he asks in a rush.

She blinks at him once, twice, a faint, pale blush rising in her shapely cheeks. Then she nods, biting down on her lower lip to suprese the grin pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

“Really?” Hamilton can hardly believe his luck, she could do far better than him. “Great! There’s a little place like a block from here that’s open all night, does that work?”

She nods again. “Yeah, yes, absolutely. I’ll find you after curtains?”

“Yeah.” quickly he chances a glance past her right ear at Jefferson. He’s hovering at the top of the metal steps, expression unreadable and that makes Alex feel rather smug. Serves the asshole right. And just  rub it in he stupid face, he lifts Eliza’s hand to his lips and presses a chaste kiss to the back. Jefferson’s whole face goes sour. Sour like lemons left rotting in the sun.

Hamilton tears his gaze away, focus solely on Eliza once more as he lets her hand slip between his fingers. “See you later?”  she gives a slight nod in response and he smiles back at her. “Great” 

Then Hamilton turns, sauntering off to help get the prop set up. 

Hopeful her sisters won't kill him over this, his intentions are all in good spirit so maybe they’ll spare him. And yet, despite the small personal victory, the whole interaction doesn’t sit right in his chest. It kind of feels like when the bricks don't fit quite right in a game of tetris, like something's skewed or disjointed.  He can’t fathom why. He’s been meaning to ask Eliza out of a while, so why does what happened moments ago feel wrong? Yeah, he might have taken some vindictive glee in showing Jefferson that he isn’t his bitch but that’s not so strange for him. The other man’s blank expression swims back to surface whenever Alexander blinks however. Why in hell should he care what Jefferson thinks or feels. He’s not his problem anymore. But the weird, uncomfortable feeling doesn’t fade. And when he spots Eliza helping Jefferson with his make up out of the corner of his eye a few minutes later  it grows angry and annoyed. She listens with earnest attention while the virgiain rambles about something he can’t hear over the low, thunderous babble of the cast and crew. The two of them conversing like that just feeds the churning pit in his stomach. 

None of this should bother him. Alexander has done nothing wrong. Jefferson and him were never exclusive so he doesn’t get to bitch and moan at him about asking someone out. Especially when he’s got a little someone of his own on the side. Besides, if everything goes well tonight this week's long affair will be nothing but a lipstick stain memory, tucked away in the back of his mind with the rest of his bad ideas. Neatly folded and labeled and shoved into a box on a dusty old shelf to be ignored until the day he dies. 

It’s probably better like this anyway. Their little- what would he ever call it? Their casual fooling around was going to end soon rather than later. Hamilton never had any intention of pursuing anything more than what they have, or, had. He was never going to let it get intimate, it was all just wish fulfillment, a fantasy he got lucky enough to experience outside of his dreams. A way to blow off some steam and fuck out that palpable sextual tesion between them. And if all goes well tonight, and Alexander can’t see how it couldn’t, then they’re through. A clause in his and Jefferson unspoken agreement. He won’t miss it, the sex.

....

Well alright, maybe a little. He can’t lie to himself. When it’s good, it’s good, and the way Jefferson looks on his knees is very good. His only regret, he thinks, is that they never did more. Hasty blow jobs are fine, but it would have been nice to take Jefferson’s cock in places other then his mouth. But that’s a level of intimacy he has no desire to go poking at. No, he hopes he never gains a sense of intimacy with Jefferson. Hope that his skin will always crawl when he enters a room. Hamilton hopes they never lose the special kind of loathing they share, that special way their eyes harden with disdain when they see one another. For as long as he lives, he hopes that-

Pain shoots up his side, originating from somewhere by his kidneys. He gasps and swears, snapping his head in the direction of the pain. Eliza has two fingers poised and ready for another jab, a ghost of a smile playing over her lips.

They’re standing on the sidewalk in front of the little ice cream parlor, bathing in the soft yellow light spilling out of the storefronts big display window. Both of them clutch little plastic cups with bright pink spoons, the sky a dull, washed out navy above them. Alexander blinks. When did it get so late?

“What are you thinking about, Alexander” Eliza asks softly.

He shakes his head to clear it from thoughts of Jefferson. Jefferson isn’t important. “Nothing, sorry, I just spaced out, I’m just -exhausted.” he tries lamely

She smile at him in way that reminds him of mist over a still lake. Serenely. “You’re always exhausted, it’s one of you’re defining traits I think.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess so...”

He peeters off, letting silence envelop them. The quite is filled with the distant sound of car tires on asphalt and buzzing street lights. Eliza picks absentmindedly at her softening ice cream, digging her spoon repeatedly into the cookie dough until it turns to mush. the silence isn’t the typical first date silence. Where the couple fidgets and shares stolen glances as they try to work up the courage to speak. No, this silence is more charged, more intentional, and Alexander waits expectantly for Eliza to fill it. Eventually she lifts up her head and his stomach plummets.

“Thank you for this Alexander, but I think I should be heading home” she says

“Eliza” he jumps in, heart beating like a worried snare drum in his chest. “I didn’t mean to seem so disinterested. I really am having a good time with you.”

She just shakes her head. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?” he asks.

Eliza sighs and it sounds like the spring breeze. “I know I’m not as smart or clever as my sisters. I’m not as sharp as Anglica.”

“Don’t say that” he interjects ernstly. He didn't mean to make her feel like this. Stupid Jefferson, distracting him.  _ Asshole _ .

“Let me finish, please.” She replies firmly, and he snaps his mouth shut. “Like I was saying: I know that I’m not as quick witted as Anglica but, I can tell when someone is pinning.” here she pauses thoughtfully, nibbling at her lower lip, glancing up at Hamilton out of the corner of her eye. “There’s someone else you want to be with right now, isn’t there?”

He scoffs. The only reason he would want to be with Jefferson is so he can kick him in the fucking face. “Eliza, my dear, I promise you, there’s no one else I’d rather spend my time with than you.” gently, he rests a hand to her forearm. She brushes him off lightly.   
“Truth be told Alexander, I’d rather not have to share anyones affection, I’m a bit selfish like that. And you’re heart belongs to someone else” she says in a measured tone. Despite her dismissal, her eyes still glow, soft with sympathy.    
“I’m sorry that you feel that way.” he mutters back, lungs heavy.

She smiles a tiny, sad smile. “I hope that we can still be friends, I really enjoy talking with you.”

Alexander reciprocates the gesture, forcing the corners of his mouth up in a lopsided grin. “I would like that.”

“I should go.” She mutters. “Thank you for the ice cream.” 

And with that, she turns to leave, dark hair fading into the surrounding night, leaving Alexander in the cold late autumn evening alone, feeling rejected and awful. He loiters there for a while, ice cream slowly melting in his hand.

His ‘heart belongs to someone else’? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Who would he even belong to? Jefferson? Ha! Yeah, no, Alexander is sure he’s demonstrated his independence from that fucker well enough. If he keeps going back to him it's because he wants to, not becauses he needs to. He doesn’t need Jefferson and his heart certainly doesn’t belong to him.

  
  



	6. A Few Blocking Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jefferson has a few questions about where he stands, and Alexander is less then helpful in helping him figure them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY JEFFERSON YOU FUCKASS AHAHAHHAHAHA!  
> On a more serious note, hey guys, I hope you like this new chapter. We're at the halfway point of this thing already, can you believe it? As always, I love to hear from you guys so leave a comment or hmu on tumblr!  
> Big thanks to Ham- for- Ham and Kyller-Biis for beta reading this!

When Hamilton wakes the next day it's too discover that his bed is unfairly comfortable, too comfortable for a Saturday morning. The mattress seems to swallow him up as he tries to make his usual social media rounds. He just can’t keep his eyes open however, and as a result he spends the next hour or so drifting in and out of sleep, unable to keep his eyes open. Not when the sheets are warm like this, curving around his body just right. Who could blame him for wanting to enjoy it. He allows it until the clock tells him it's already eight and he cannot excuse his slothness any longer. So with a grunt and a groan, Hamilton rolls himself to his left, tumbling out of the bed and onto the floor with a _ thump  _ that wakes him the rest of the way up.

“Jesus, Alexander” Burr grumbles from his side of the room.

From where he lies prone on the floor Hamilton glances up to see his roommate, sat on the edge of his mattress donning pair of thick socks to fight off the cold which permeates the room.

He sighs and throws an arm over his face. “Sorry, I’m- fucking tired.”

“That’s new,” Burr comments off handedly

“No it’s not.”

“It’s not often that you admit it.” he replies. Then “Where were you last night? I didn’t hear you come in so I just assumed you feel asleep on the couch. Apparently that’s not the case.”

Alexander shrugs best he can while laying flat on his back. “I had a date”

“Oh” the sound hangs heavy in the air, heavier than an ‘oh’ should. It’s full of implications, and judgment Hamilton has no time for. “Were you and -”

“No.” he interjects forcefully.

Why does everyone think he wants to spend time with Jefferson? Why would anyone in their right minds think that? Maybe, a little part of him says, maybe it has to do with the fact that he's screwing him on a daily basis. Okay, there is that and while he could understand Burr jumping to that conclusion, Eliza doesn’t know about him and Jefferson, he thinks anyway. 

“- no, I was with Eliza.” he tells the other man glumly.

“Alexander...” Burr trails off in his ‘I know better then you’ way that he does.

“Things didn’t really work out, so don’t worry.” he bites back. Seriously, he doesn’t need a lecture.

Burr sighs “I know you don’t want to hear what I’m going to say.”

“Then maybe- don’t say it?” Hamilton suggests.

Burr is  going to try and give him relationship advice, really? Burr? Burr, who’s  been not so secretly dating a girl for six months now. Who goes home with her during the breaks under the guise of her ‘close friend’. Burr, who’s to afraid to just ask her out already, when everybody knows she would leave her boyfriend at the drop of a hat if he asked. That's the person that's going to help him sort out  his messy social life. Yeah no. He doesn’t want Burr’s help, he doesn’t need it.

Burr continues to parent him regardless. “You need to be more careful with people Alexander. You can’t have it all without hurting someone in the process, and simply ignoring your relationship with Thomas, as - unconventional as it is,  will do neither of you any good.”

“You know what, Burr?” Alexander shoves himself into seated position, trying to pin his his roommate down with a glare. “Maybe shut the fuck up? Alright? I am an adult, let me make my own goddamn mistakes.”

He clambers up from the floor as Burr sits there in stunned silence. Hamilton does his best to ignore him as he fumbles about their room for his stuff, shoving it all into his leather shoulder bag as he goes. 

Burr doesn’t get it. He thinks he’s stupid, he must. He must think Alexander is so incredibly dumb not to see that his actions affect people. He’s not blind, he’s not an idiot. He knows he and Jefferson don’t fit. That’s the goddamn point. He’s not looking for a relationship. He doesn’t want to build something lasting. He and Jefferson aren't even courteous enough to one another to be considered fuck buddies so there’s really nothing to ignore. If this thing that they’re doing gets complicated either of them can just bail. It’s simple, cheap, flimsy, like those fingertrap games, not meant to be hard to escape. So Burr needs to back off, Hamilton can take care of himself. He always has, and that’s not going to change anytime soon.

Alexander shoves his feet into his duct taped sneakers and marches towards the door with a huff. “I’m leaving”

“You don’t want to wait for a ride?” Burr asks cautiously. 

“No.  I think I’ll just walk. If you don’t think that a bad idea that is.” he snaps back bitterly, fist clenched around the door knob. 

“Alex, you know that’s not what I meant-”

“Whatever” he storms out of the room fuming. His cheeks are hot and his hair is everywhere but he doesn’t pause to put himself right. His bee line for the front door however, is interrupted by his best friend slamming a cabinet door.

“Hey?” Laurens calls, halting Hamilton mid brooding stride. “Where are you going? We don't have to be at the theater for another couple of hours.”

The immigrant leans back against the door leading into the hall, brushing his loose, stringy hair out of his face. He needs to shower more, but who has that kind of time?

“Out. I gotta get away from my judgemental ass roommate for a few hours.” he grumbles. “Throw me a poptart?”

John complies, snatching a foil wrapped packet from the box on the counter, and tossing it over to Alexander. He catches smoothly with one hand, having had a lot of practice swatting down the projectiles Jefferson has hurled at him over the years. What an utter asshole that virginian fuck is. 

“See you later Alex.” Laurens shoots back. “You’re still on for Denny’s tonight after the show right?”

“Yeah, of course.” And with that he slips out of dorm. 

  
  


He tries to sequester himself away in the library for a while, finish the papers that are due the following week, but after three hours of staring blankly at his computer screen and idly tapping the keys he feels sincerely unproductive. It’s because he can’t stand the library. The sharp click of three dozen keyboards, all rapidly firing off word after word is distracting. The artificial silence he finds opersive. A dronning void of quite that buzzes in his ears, making the hair on his arm stand on end. He writes best when he’s locked away in his room, alone, sharing in the silence with no one. He’ll even kick Burr out if its a really big assignment so he can be productive and not have to be conscious of the breathing of the person next to him. 

Eventually growing sick of this exhausting atmosphere, Hamilton packs up his things and takes to wandering aimlessly around campus. Nether, Peggy or Laf are answering his texts so he assumes they’re probably spending time together and don't want him to intrude. Which is fair, but now Alexander feels he has nowhere to go. Eventually he hunkers down in the coffee shop a block from the theater and dicks around on his phone until it's a reasonable time to head over for the show. He beats Washington there. The old theater veteran gives him a weary look as he unlocks the door and allows Alexander to slip inside. Five minutes later more people start trickling in one by one. First some more passionate actors and actress, theatre majors who view this as more of a career than a hobby. Then some techies, John and Burr included. He greets Laurens merrily and ignores Burr entirely because he’s a petty fuck like that. The Schuyler sisters come strolling in while he’s pulling on the mic condoms, each sporting matching purses of different colors and waving to Hamilton as they pass. Eliza's eyes are slightly softer than the rest as she walks by and his chest aches for her. Not fiercely like he wishes it would, with an underwhelming desire to pursue her, but rather with lilac resolution. Maybe she’s right and his heart wasn’t really in it, she deserves better than his surface level affection. 

Last to arrive is Jefferson, of course. Looking likes he’s just rolled out of bed at the terribly inconvenient hour of four in the afternoon. Hair mussed up like he was tossing and turning all night, deep bags under his eyes, his lack of desire to put himself right before leaving the house speaks volumes to his exhaustion. Hamilton ignores him too. He can feel his eyes digging trenches into the top of his head while he actively makes no attempt to glance up, daring Jefferson silently to come over and start something. Yelling at him would be cathartic, the perfect outlet for all this pent up annoyance. But after a few moments, Hamilton hears the tell tale sound of retreating feet. He spares a glance up, just in time to catch the tail of Jefferson cardigan whipping around the corner, down the stairs. He’s not going to follow him because he’s not going to do his make up. He told Jefferson that he was done and he’s going to stick to it this time, even if it pisses off Washington. Everytime he helps him it gets harder and harder to convince himself that he’s not the throw away assistant everyone seems to think he is. 

He’s more than just an errand boy, he tells himself bitterly as he plugs in the last mic wire. He does things that make a difference for the show. His job is important, and not in anyway meaninal.

 

Jefferson  must have found someone else willing to put up with him long enough to do his make up, because he emerges with the rest of the actors from the dressing room in full costume, just in time for mic checks. Angelica leads warm ups and at seven everyone rushes to places  for the show to start. Everything is running smoothly, Hamilton duly follows his script as they sing and dance through act one. No one misses a cue or a line or a step and vaguely he think that this might be one of the best performances they’ve done yet. Eliza is perfect as always, and Jefferson seems extra passionate tonight. The kiss may be the the best one he's ever done, and again, Alexander finds himself wondering absently who it is he thinks about when he’s holding Eliza. Is it the same person that left the hickey on his neck? If not them, then who? The irrelevant thought sits heavy in his chest.

Now Jefferson has just sauntered back on stage, face covered in kiss marks that Alexander is glad he didn have to put there. Kissing Jefferson straddles that fine line between what is acceptable and what is crossing into the forbidden territory of intimacy. Hamilton follows along in his script as the lanky Virginian cross stage right to where Angelica stands, a cocky, somewhat breathless smirk on his face. Dialogue passes between them seamlessly, it always does. They’re both such talented performers that the narrative flows as naturally as an conversation through the scene. Then Angelica makes to hop up on the counter behind her, it’s move she's made a thousand times since she’s gotten the blocking. She’ll sit herself on the top of the set piece and deliver the rest her line from there.  But as she swings her arms back to press her hands to the countertop in order to boost herself up, a horrible, soul rending  _ riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!  _  cuts through the air. 

Everyone freezes, Peggy gasps loudly in his ear. There a huge tear in the seam of Angelica's red satin top. Alexander stops breathing because no- nonononononononono _ nonono nononono _

This is not happening. Not tonight. Not to his show. Fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

Her blouse is shredded right down the side, a gaping hole that no one could miss.

For what it’s worth, Angelica handles the incident like a pro.

She peers gingerly down at the tear, grimaces, the mutters, ‘Damn it all to hell.” in a voice just loud enough for her mic to pick up. Then she hops up onto the counter like she intended, still fully in character, bless her soul. Hamilton, however, is not handling the situation with the same level of composure.  He drops his binder and rushes to stage left in a cold sweat, shouting quietly for someone to go get Mulligan right now.

God damnit it, why tonight, why now?

 

He fidgets and fusses  though the rest of the scene, desperate to get Angelica off stage and fix this mess. Although the damage is done already, everyone saw the way her shirt split down the side.

She rushes off stage the second the lights go down for intermission and Hamilton meets her halfways, hands shaking. Without a word he guilds her over to where Lafayette, Laurens, and Mulligan all stand. Herc has a travel sized sewing kit in his hands and as soon as Angelica reaches him, he starts to pull the ripped fabric back together. Alexander hovers, watching with baited breath as he tries to safety pin the fabric in place. He hopes they can mend the shirt before lights up or they’re screwed.

While all this is happening , someone taps his shoulder, a freshman no doubt. He waves them away, far too stressed with his own shit to tell them where the tape is of the umpteenth time. But the person taps his shoulder again, hasher this time, and Alexander can feel himself reaching his breaking point rather quickly.

“Not now” he hisses. Seriously kid, back up.

Suddenly whoever it is grabs his arm roughly, like they’re trying to pull it right from the socket, and the little immigrant finds himself being pried away from the most important thing happening at the moment.

“Don’t tell me to fuck off.” a low, threatening voice, that could only belong to Jefferson growls in his ear.

Hamilton wrenches his arm from his grip, chest heaving. “Get off of me.”  He really, really doesn’t need to deal with this right now, he has actual problems. 

Jefferson glares down at him, the low, menacing set of his brow casting a deep shadow over those lifeless pits he calls eyes. Jaw squared in a stern line that makes Alexander all weak from two completely different reasons. But he's not in the mood right now. Plus, he’s still trying to illustrate his unfounded anger, so Jefferson can go right to hell. 

“I need you.” Jefferson mutters under his breath.

“Fuck off.” Alexander retorts.

The other man sighs heavily, warm breath fanning across his face. “We need to talk.” he reiterates

“No, I’m in the middle of a crisis.” the stress of it all is starting to swallow in him like a dark wave. His voice cracks under the pressure of the undertow. “I don’t have to listen to you. So Fuck. Off. Jefferson. Go bother someone else.”

The blue light from the exposed bulb mounted to the wall behind them flashes in his pupils like a lightning storm. His nostrils flail, lips pressing into a thin line so hard the skin grows pale. Without another word, he stalks off, parting a sea of babbling techie girls with the sheer aura of his rage. Hamilton watches him go, squeezing his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. What the fuck is Jefferson’s problem? 

“Hey?” another, more gentle hand comes to rest on his shoulder this time, carefully guiding Alexander to meet its owner's eyes.  Laurens is raking his gaze across his features, brows knitting together with worry. “You doing alright?”

Hamilton breathes out a low, shaky chuckle, rubbing his free hand hard across his face. “Everything is ruined” he laughs again, the sound tight and stressed. His dumb eyes feel hot under his hand.

John presses his thumb into Hamilton’s shoulder in slow comforting circles. “Herc’s almost done, the shirts gonna be good as new, man.” he sooths

“Doesn’t matter” exhausted, he leans heavily into his friend’s comforting touch, resting his head in the crook of his shoulder. “Her shirt ripped on stage, it’s all over. Fuck- and we’re doing so well, too....”

“Alex,,,” the other boy tries, but Alexander is quick to drown him out with his werry babbling. 

“It’s all  people are going to talk about John. Not the music, or the set, or the performances. We could run the next act flawlessly and it wouldn’t matter, because all anyone’s going to talk about when they leave here how ‘that girl’s shirt busted open on stage.”

All anybody’s going to talk about is how his musical flopped. His new legacy- that one show where the girl’s top popped off. That’s what they’ll remember, that’s what they’ll take away from it. Leaving in droves and muttering to one another about how the seams of the shirt just exploded. Hamilton’s hands start shaking again, because this, this singular moment defines the show for the rest of time, and that makes him so incredibly frustrated and sick. 

The hand over his eyes snakes its way up to his hairline, fisting the loose clumps in his fingers while he presses down the  angry tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He’s a fucking adult, dammit, he’s not going to get emotional about the worst fucking accident to plague his theater career.

A reassuring squeeze from John to remind him that he’s still there. “Angie handled it well. The audience is just going to think it was part of the show, don't worry, nothing's ruined.”

John’s probably right. So long as they don’t acknowledge that something went wrong, the audience will be none the wiser. Plus, out of the corner of his eye he can see Herc feverishly stitching the fabric of Angelica’s shirt back together. It’s all going to be fine, surly. But Hamilton does still spend the rest of the intermission with Laurens. Letting his comfortable, familiar presence calm his wrecked nevers.

As the lights go up for act two, he forced to return to his position stage right. He tries chatting with Peggy to distract himself, keeping himself from obsessing over the incident like he usually would . There’s no reason to let it consume him other than the fact that, oh yeah, his name is attached to this fucking thing even if it is only in a small part, so when it all goes up in flames, so does he. So, distractions are neat. Drawing his attention away from the tearing, and his fight with Burr, and his failure with Eliza and Jefferson’s weirdness, so he can finish the show. After the curtain call, which he watches silently from the wings, cleaning up keeps his mind busy and keeps his frantic thoughts to a minimum.

Once everything’s all packed away and read for rehearsal on Monday, Alexander slings his batter shoulder bag across his chest and waits for Laurens, planning to catch a ride with him or maybe Peggy to Denny’s since he and Burr aren't speaking. He’s avoiding a lot of people right now, he realizes. Burr, Jefferson, even Eliza a little because it's still too soon after their disastrous date for things not to be awkward.

Footsteps cause him to glance up from his phone, and that’s when Hamilton notices Jefferson striding, rather purposely, in his direction.

Yeah, fuck that.

The immigrant wraps a hand tightly around his bag strap, ducks his head, and starts marching away from the approaching Virginian as fast as his legs will carry him. Unfortunately, Jefferson’s stride is  much wider, and it doesn’t take much from him to situate himself right in Alexander’s path. 

Hamilton whips his head up, jaw clenched. “What’s your problem tonight, fuckass?!” he screeches. He’s already on edge and he doesn’t need one more damn thing to deal with.

Jefferson takes in his wild eyes and bared teeth with a steely expression that makes his usually handsome features seem menacing. “We need to talk.” he says, again. Apparently he’s adamant about this.

Hamilton rolls back his shoulders. He can feel a knot forming between his shoulder blades but ignores it so he can put more energy into repeatedly murdering the other man with his glare. “You know, what? Yeah, we do. We do need to talk, because I have some shit to say to you. Yeah, let's talk Jefferson, let’s talk about ho-”

“Not here.” Jefferson cuts in, making Alexander grimace

“Why?”

“Because” he sighs. “We need to talk about this” he gestures flippantly between the two of them. “And I hardly think that’s a conversation we should be having in public, do you?”

Alexander growls in response. This is the last thing he wants to talk about, but at least he’ll get to shout and scream and cuss at Jefferson until his throat is raw and ruined. That’s the only reason, he tells himself anyway, why he bobs his head in silent agreement.

“Alex?”

Hamilton jumps, quickly spinning  on his heel to face the direction of the voice calling his name. 

John stands there with his backpack hang limply off one shoulder, and the rest of their friends gathered behind him. Peggy, sandwiched between her two sisters, arms looped around theirs. Laf and Mulligan hovering behind Burr. They all stare Alexander down with wide, inquisitive eyes, sharing glances with each other as they try to figure out how he and Jefferson could be having a conversation without someone being ripped in half. Everyone except Burr, whose gaze is judgemental.

Laurens looks confused, and betrayed. His puppy dog eyes set in some way that’s hard to completely read. He almost seems hurt. “Alex, you’re still coming, right?”

Hamilton pointed glances away, unable to make eye contact with any of them at the moment. He’s ashamed at what he’s about to do but it can’t be helped. 

He turns to Jefferson. “Let’s go” then brushes past him as he makes for the theater exit as fast as he can. Peggy gasps softly, he feels like a dick for ignoring her.

The sharp click of Jefferson’s dress shoes follows him as he leaves. He still can’t believe that he’s willingly choosing to spend time with Jefferson over his friends. So he can scream at him, but still, ditching the people closest to him doesn’t sit right in his chest. Once he’s out in the cold midnight air, however, his chest doesn’t feel so tightly bound. It helps clear his mind and get some perspective. 

They’ll be fine, they can deal with it. He can explain it to them later and if they don’t feel like forgiving him then that’s their problem. He’ll explain it just as soon as he comes to understand it himself. Because he must be absolutely losing his godforsaken mind if he thought that this would be a good idea.

“This way.” Jefferson instructs, gentle fingers in the center of his back, redirecting him in the direction of the gaudiest car in the theater parking lot. A cherry red sports car that may have impressed him if he knew a little more about cars. Right now it only makes him resent the other man even more.

He’s just going to get into Jefferson’s car and let him drive him god knows where. Yeah this can't possibly end badly. 

The locks swish and Jefferson reaches around Hamilton, pulling open the passenger side door for him.

“Such a motherfucking souther gentleman.” the little stage manager gripes under his breath as he slides inside. 

Jefferson slams the door shut behind him, narrowly missing his foot but smacking him quite fantastic in the ass with the handhold. Alexander swears violently at him through the windows as the other man makes his way around to the drivers side.

“Fucking pretentious southern dickhole, I hope you choke on sweet tea.” Hamilton hisses at him as he starts the car.   
Jefferson snorts. “Really? That’s the best you can do?”

“Get trampled by a horse you nonsensical, inbred douchebag.”

An eye roll from his companion. “Hamilton buckle your fucking seat belt.”

“No”

“I don’t have time for your childish bullshit, buckle your seat belt.” Jefferson shoots back

“You gonna make me?” He retorts.

Jefferson says nothing, his fist tightening on the steering wheel until the knuckles start to bleach. A car is decidedly to small of the place for the two of them. They’re too close, to closed in. Hamilton’s not sure what’s going to break first, the virginian’s resolution not to kill him, or the leather bound wheel.

Eventually, Jefferson eases one hand off and shifts the car to reverse, and Alexander still refuses buckle himself in. They eases smoothy out of the lot and out onto the sparsely lit street. Jefferson lives off campus, in his own apartment some distance from the school. They sit in agonising silence for a long time, almost fifteen minutes without so much as an exchange of breath. Alexander tries to distract himself by memorizing the street signs they pass, so he can find his way home if Jefferson just decided to abandon him on the side of the freeway, but the novelty doesn’t last long.

“You know for someone so fucking adamant to have a conversation-” he beings, shifting his focus from the street lights they pass towards Jefferson profile. “- You’re sure saying jack shit.”

The virginian glides a thumb slowly across the curve of the wheel and says nothing. Adding napalm to the bonfire already burning low in Alexander's chest.

“GOD I hate you!” he shrieks, folding his arms tight across his chest and sinking down in his seat like a toddler. “I could punch you in your stupid fucking filthy mouth right now. I hate your bullshit mouth. I can’t fucking believe I let you suck me off four times with-”   
“I’m not helping you cheat on Eliza” Jefferson says, firmly, and loud enough to put an end to Hamilton’s triade. 

He pauses, stunned. “What?”

The other man spares him a fleeting look out of the corner of his eye before refocusing his attention on the dark road. “I’ve grown rather fond of Eliza over the past couple of months. She’s very sweet and smart, and deserves far better than the likes of you, and I refuse to be the “other woman’” here he makes exaggerated air quotes with his right hand. “In this situation.”

Hamilton gapes, slack jawed at him. “What, in the ever loving fuck, are you talking about Jefferson?”   
He grunts, exasperated. “I’m not going to hurt her by fooling around with you on the side.”

Well, that’s rich coming from the jackass walking around with hickeys up and down his neck, but Alexander isn’t ready to breach that subject. Instead he shifts around in his seat so he’s facing the virginian. “Are you on crack? Since when are me and Eliza dating?”

Jefferson spares him another quick, this time incredulous, glance. “I saw the two of you the other day, you left the theater arm and arm.”

“Yeah so?” Alexander can’t believe this. Is Thomas really that upstanding of a guy, or is he jealous of Eliza? Neither answer is one he wants to hear. “I asked her out, but things didn’t go well”

“I’m sure” Jefferson breathes

“What was that?” he snaps back.

Jefferson  shoots him a facetious look and clucks his tongue. “Please, she’s obviously smitten with you, big, cartoon hearts coming out her head and all that. And you’re try to convince me that she wasn’t interested? You’re shitty liar, Alexander”

“Well fuck, I don't know what to tell you.” Hamilton seeths. “She said she thought I was pining after someone else and left.”

Another too long look from Jefferson before he flicks his gaze back to the road. “Are you?”

“Well lets see, the only person I’ve been with in a non platonic way recently has been you soooooo. No.” he mutters with a roll if his eyes

“What about Laurens?” 

“What about John?” he responds stiffly, hands balling up into fists in his lap. They’re moving faster now, street lights and highway signs whizz past, casting sporadic beams of light through the windshield. Hamilton eases back into his seat. “Fuck it, I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“That’s not a no’” Jefferson leads.

“OH MY GOD.” Hamilton throws up his hands, curling his fingers around the headrest of his seat instead of Jefferson’s neck like he wishes he could. “Why do you  _ care _ , Jefferson?!”

Jefferson twist around violently in his seat to face him. “BECAUSE I WANT TO KNOW WHERE I  _ FUCKING  _ STAND!”   
“CAR” Alexander screams, instinctively  bracing himself against the overhead bar

The car in the lane next to them just decided to zoom ahead and dart out in front of them.

“Fuckingchrist!” Jefferson slams the breaks and veers into the left lane, blaring his horn at the angry red tail lights. The movement jolts Alexander out of his seat.

He takes the glove compartment hard to the stomach, and his shoulder burns as he's launched forward, still clinging to the hand hold for dear life. 

“-fuck” he wheezes, slumped over the dash. His chest aches. 

“Y’all alright?” Jefferson asks, voice tight and tense. “Alexander are you okay?”

“You almost fucking killed me.” he huffs, slowly sliding back into his seat, sure to clip the buckle this time. “You almost killed me, you idiot!”

Jefferson sighs, he’s got both hands locked rigidly to the wheel, arms stiff, eyes glued to the road. “You’re fine” he breathes

“Let me out.”

“What?!” the virginian’s eyes flicks like he means to look at Alexander, but thinks better of it.    
“Let me out of the car right now” Hamilton repeats.

“Hamilton we’re in the middle of the highway.”

“I don’t care.” he says firmly. He’s nothing going to died having spent his last moments with fucking Jefferson. “If you don’t let me out of the car right now, I’m going to start banging on the windows and screaming that I’ve been kidnapped.”

“No you won’t” Jefferson replies, adjusting his grip nervously on the wheel.    
“You wanna bet?” he shoots back

“Wha- No! Jesus Hamilton, not everything I say is to get a fucking rise out of yo- where would you even go? We’re like twenty minutes from campus.”

He folds his arms tightly over his chest “I’ll walk”

“In the freezing cold, I don’t think so.” a pause. It seems to stretch on forever. “Listen, we’ll be at my place in like two minutes so just- sit there quietly so I can get us there in one piece.”

“Well I want to go back to my dorm.” Hamilton shoots back.

“And I want a father that gives a shit, life’s tough.” Jefferson mutters gruffly. “And I’m not done discussing this.”

Alexander scoffs, turning to glare out the window so he can’t see the other man out his periphery. “What more is there to talk about?”

Jefferson says nothing, so he rolls his eyes languidly and stares up at the sky. He searchers the muted blue heavens for recognizable pinpricks of light, but the bustling city on the horizon has smoothers out the familiar constellations. There’s no Cassiopeia bending low to touch the New York skyline

They exit the highway carefully, Jefferson checking the mirrors and his blind spot at least three times each before easing them onto the the off ramp. From there it only takes about another minute or so and they’re parking in front of a decent looking apartment building Alexander kicks his door open as soon as the locks slide open and hops out of the car.  It’s freezing, he rubs he hands feverish over his arms to keep them warm, regretting not grabbing more than a hoodie and jeans  when he left this morning. Jefferson silently motions for him to follow, and he does so reluctantly, pushing past the double doors into the quiet lobby. Up three flights of stairs, he trails behind the other man, watching the way he stumbles up the steps, gripping the stairway railing. He must be exhausted if he favoring his right side like that. Why does he want to talk so badly?

 

Regardless of the answer, Hamilton follows him up two more flights of stairs to the third floor landing. Jefferson leads the way down the  silent hall to room 323 and swiftly unlocks it, allowing them both inside. The place isn’t as big as Alexander was expecting. He’s not really sure what he thought Jefferson’s apartment would look like, he’s never given it any thought before. Its surprisingly simple. Simple coffee table, simple sofa, simple desk with jammed in the corner. Its covering in papers and what looks like thick law books, the contents of an overturned pencil case sector haphazardly over top. Post it notes cover the wall the desk is pressed against, shouting out snippets of information like ‘test tomorrow’ or ‘need to go grocery shopping’ or ‘call Maddie’ in Jefferson wide, loopy handwriting. Other than the mess overflowing from the desk, the rest of the room is surprisingly clean and well organized. There’s a little kitchenette behind the half wall and a hallway to the right of that that must lead to the virginians room.

Hamilton lead against the door frame, following Jefferson with his eyes as he moves to stand by the only window. Obnoxious, neon red light spills in from a bright sign across the street, bathing Jefferson it is glow, casting a demonic halo through his wild hair.

Hamilton slips his bag from his shoulder, dropping it to the floor before he crosses his arms tightly. “Well? You got me here. What now?”

The taller man turns, pressing his palms flat to the window sill behind. “We need to talk.”

“You keep saying that.” he seethes. “You would just fucking say it?! Jesus, it’s like trying to get Burr to tell you his favorite anything”

“We need to about us, what this is”

He scoffs. “Jefferson, there is no ‘us’. This-” he gestured violently between them. “ This is not a thing. ‘Us’ is not a thing.”

“What is this then?” the virginian shoots back. The shadows from the lights outside masks the expression on his face.

Hamilton shrugs. “It’s just sex. It’s literally just sex. I didn’t think I’d have to explain that to you!”

“So that makes it okay to see other people if we want?” he inquires.

“No-! I mean- That’s not what I meant. Stop saying ‘we’, we’re not a couple!”

“So then we’re-” he trails off, letting the ending dangle between them. But nether of them want to say the word. Exclusive. Because voicing it would make their ‘relationship’ too concert, like its something real, something that could be broken. 

Instead Alexander tries to dance around it. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does! Of course it does, Hamilton!” Jefferson shouts back.   
“Well, FUCK Jefferson!” He swings his arms out wide. “What do you want me to tell you, don’t fucking anybody else?! Unlike you, I don’t give a fuck who you do in your spare time. This shouldn’t be complicated!”

“-You make everything complicated”  He snaps, pushing away from the wall. “You might believe that you’re above it all and that somehow gives you the right to do whatever you please-!”

“-I’m the one on the high horse!?!” He cries, Jefferson steam rolls over him.

“-But I’m not about to be cast aside when you find something better, and I’m certain not going to wait around for when you need to get off quick! That wasn’t part of the deal”

“There was no deal!” Alexander sheiks back. He can feel the heat rising in his cheek, the hammering of his heart in his chest. “This just a temporary arrangement. It’s designed not to be complicated so one of us can bail if need be. But you keep making it weird!”

“Then we’re done? You made it clear that you’d rather see other people” Jefferson asks coolly.

“No!”  God no. Despite the recent complications, this arrangement has been working out rather well for Alexander, he’s got no reason to give it up just yet.

The other man slaps a hand over his face. “Then what the fuck are we doing?!”

“I don’t know!” He bellows back. 

And just like that, silence fills the room. The silences that comes when an argument has reached it stormy peak, and those parties involved can longer see a safe way down. But Alexander’s a alway been a  ‘leap before you think’ kind of guy.

So he launches himself off that narrow, crumbling ledge, straight down into the frothing, black waves of Jefferson.

He’s not sure yet if he’s going to kiss him or strangle him, he’ll decide when he gets there. Three long, angry strides are all it takes to reach Jefferson. Alexander brings his hands up, slides them over his neck, into his hair and jerks him downward. 

Kissing it is.

If you can really call what they’re doing with their tongues and teeth right now kissing anymore. Its hot breath and sharp teeth and fists wound tightly around hair. Hamilton slams Jefferson back hard against the window sill, the resulting  bang and clatter that it gives makes him smirk. He pins him down with his hips, traces fingers across the lines of his neck and presses his full, toothy smile to the corner of his mouth. Jefferson gasps, sags back against the wall and grasps at Hamilton even tighter. 

Alexander’s going to break him.

“You really wanna know where you stand?” he breathes, before scraping his teeth under the other man’s chin. “No more talking.”

He grinds up into him, force his legs apart with his knees and rubs against him. Jefferson hisses in his ear, hands moving to braces against Hamilton's shoulders. Yeah, he’s gonna make him beg for it. With fingers still tangled in his hair, he drags the other man up for another kiss, breaching the seam of his lips with ease. He’s loving the sounds Jefferson’s making, high needy whines and strangle moans slipping from his lips, sticking to Alexander’s tongue as he drags it along the roof of his mouth. Rolling, writhing, panting together in the dark of Jefferson’s apartment, fingers clutching a cloths that need to be removed.

Hamilton staggers back, not loosing his hands from the front of Jefferson’s button up or  unclamping his teeth from his neck. The pair of them stumble. The edge of the coffee table clips his right calf and Alexander snarls, taking up a fistful of Jefferson’s shirt so he can press more open mouthed kisses to his jaw. 

Careless feet trip over each other, sending them careening back. The hit the far wall, Jefferson throwing up hand to slow them down, as a result, Alexander doesn’t get a concussion. They pause. They could stop now, break a apart before this gets any worse. A breathless second pass where they stare hard at one another, breathing heavy. 

God, he hates him. Hate him and his apartment, and his car, and his swollen, spit slick lips and his stupid fucking blown out eyes that makes him simultaneously want to melt and beat him until he’s bleeding. Alexander snarls, grabs his hips and says ‘to hell with caution’. He wants Jefferson screaming. He’s never experiences desire so twisted, to the point where he wants to see the other man crying under him. The thought leaves him dizzy, insides writhing in ecstasy, heart hammering almost nervously in his chest, almost giddily. That’s when Jefferson decides  so devel back in, mouthing and biting lightly over his neck.

An angry flush racing along Hamilton’s  skin like an inferno, scorching him and leaving blisters down his throat.

“Harder, come on!” he barks, rutting up against Jefferson thigh. “Come on come on  _ come on come on!” _

“Jesuschrist” he groans back. “Bedroom,,,,”

Alexander takes his face in one hand and attaches them at the lips, and then they’re off again, stumbling on wobbling knees deeper into the hall. He's not quite sure how they got the door open, frankly he doesn’t care, but he hears it slam against the wall before rebounding back and smacking him in the ass. Hamilton growls and kicks it as hard and he possible can, casing to smash into the wall again. Once they’re inside, or at least, he assumes they’re inside Jefferson’s room, he takes fistfuls of his shirt and tugs. And tugs and tugs and tugs until his fingers ache and his arms hurt, but the buttons on Jefferson’s dress shirt just won't fly off. Damn it all to hell, movies make it looks so easy. Like, one tug on the guys collar and suddenly the buttons are scattered across the floor. Real life is messier, and Hamilton isn’t all that strong. He snarls again, deep his his chest and pulls away from the other man’s hungry mouth so he can focus more intently on the shirt. He readjusts his grip, takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw and pulls. But the fabric only strains, the buttons are only pulled taut in their little openings.

“Fuckin-!” he tries again, and again, tearing at the shirt more frantically every time. 

Damn fucking stupid ass, bullshit buttons! With something akin to a war cry, Alexander twist a wrist upward and  heaves. One of them gives, popping out of slit, exposing a window of Jefferson’s stomach to him. Jefferson’s hands fall to his waist, lips roving from hairline to the tops and his shoulders while Hamilton seizes the open flaps and rips the rest of the buttons out, one by one until he’s left fighting with the last clasp holding the shirt together, the final button at the bottom of his shirt. No matter which way he heaves, how much he curses and flails it stays resolute. The rest of the shirt is already falling open around Jefferson’s broad shoulders, slipping down his arms, so close but still not close enough. Finally, Jefferson reaches down with calmer fingers and puts an end to the struggle. Alexander shoves him roughly back onto the bed. 

The other man  hits the sheets on his back, propping himself up on his elbows, with legs spread wide and dangling over the edge of the mattress. 

God, Alexander wants to destroy him. Strip him raw in every possible way.

He grabs the back of his hoodie and whips it off over his head, then he shirt, leaving his panting and hard in his jeans. Jefferson groans. Hamilton crawls into his lap, coxing him to move up the bed by thrusting his hips up, bucking forward and down onto the other man’s crotch until they scoot up, parallel to the head board. They slow for a moment, Hamilton swiftly reconnecting their mouths before digging his blunt nails into the waistband of Jefferson's jeans then slowly, so very slowly slides from his thighs. He pops the button and tugs down the zipper, Shreds him of his shoes and socks and pants in quick succession, frenzied like he’s lost his mind. He might have. He’s never wanted to ruin a lover before, but Jefferson has stirred something dark and wicked in his chest. Something ravenous for blood. He’ll have a million problems to deal with in the morning, more people telling what he should do. But until then he’s got a few hours to be reckless, to light this kerosene fire and watch it blaze. He’s going to bend Jefferson until he snaps.

Jefferson’s cock is still a treat, flushed and leaking. Apparently the arrogant fuck likes to get his ass owned. Alexander can work with that. He brushes his lips lightly up the side of the shaft just to hear the virginia's wine. He nips a his hip, then mouths and licks his way back up his chest. Face to face once more, he draws Jefferson in for a laudied, wet kiss.

“Hands and knees.” he mutters as he pulls back, quickly unstraddling the man.

Jefferson blinks up at him through bleary, lust clouded eyes. “You want wha-?”   
“Hands and knees let's go!” he whacks him lightly across the thigh with the back of his hand and Jefferson gasps. “Next time I won’t ask nicely.”

He swallows and nods reluctantly, pushing himself up on trembling arms. He moves slow, so slow, so agonizingly, painfully, annoying slow. With a frustrated grunt, Alexander rids himself of the rest of his cloths, kicking off shoes and filing socks who knows where. He’s just stripped himself of his boxers when he hears Jefferson’s impatient groan.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. On elbows and knees in the center of his big ass bed. Shaking thighs spread wide, back arched, ass up. Definitely a sight Hamilton won’t be forgetting anytime soon. He almost feels inclined to drool. With a whine of his own, he kneels on the edge of the mattress and ghosts fingertips over the perfect curve of that ass. Maybe this is where Jefferson stands. Whimpering and rocking back into his touch. Yeah, Alexander definitely likes him best on his knees. 

The little immigrant shuffles forward, between the other man’s legs, and starts laying sloppy, kisses down the length of his spine, ending right a the cleft of his ass.

“Alex-” Jefferson chokes out, and Hamilton grins. It’s like that, is it?

Leisurely, he lowers himself further, and decides, what the hell? His tongue darts out, licking a stripe from the Virginia's balls to the top of his ass. He shudder violently, tremors of pleasure shaking a guttural moan from his very core as he back bows down.

“Alexander!” he  groans, fisting the sheets.

Hamilton lays a hand gently on the small of the back to keep him steady, the other reaches down to grip himself, because if Jefferson crying out his name isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever heard.    
“Where’s the stuff? He asks hoarsely

“‘M clean.” he crocks back.

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “Cool. where do you keep the stuff.”

The other man grunts, rocking back  again to present his perky ass. Alexander won’t give Jefferson much, but he has to admit, he’s got a nice ass. 

“Bottom left drawer in- in the bedside table.” he stutters. 

Alexander nods, dropping his hands to he can pry open the drawer indicated and snag a condom and lube. Jefferson not that much bigger then him, they’ll probably be fine. 

He slicks up his fingers, and with no warning because he wants to watch him squirm, starts to ease a finger in. Jefferson yelps and rolls his hips down on the digit. His breathing is ragged, shallow, coming in short, wet gasps that make the hungry blackness in Alexander's chest purr with delight. He thrusts in a out a couples of times, giving the other man just enough time to adjust before he’s pushing in another.

Jefferson moans. “Godfuckyes justlikethaaaa- hhhh!” he babbles, bearing down on the fingers penetrating him.

Hamilton stares with fascination at the place where his fingers disappear into his ass, cock going ever stiffer as he watches how Jefferson takes them. He fucks him a little longer with his fingers, touchs himself absentmindedly as he slides in another and curls them against his walls until he’s streached. Jefferson, it would seems, is noisy in bed. He figured that he might be, the way he moans and whines around his dick when he sucks him off during intermission, but he’s twice as loud when his mouth is unobstructed. He whines and groans and writhes under his hand, making Alexander hot all over.

Eventually though, the shallow pumping of his fingers is loses its novelty. He ease them out while Jefferson moans weakly in protest. 

“Bet you could get off on just that.” Hamilton teases, opening the condom and rolling it down his painfully hard shaft. He lines himself up with Jefferson entrance, pressing the head of his cock in a fraction of an inch. “Never would have taken you as the submissive type.”

“Just- fuck me please.” Jefferson groans back, thrusting his hips back weakly.

“Did you just say ‘please’?” he  asks breathlessly. He rocks himself forward gently, slowly seating himself inside.

Jefferson looses a strangled cry, and Alexander so badly wants to rolls his hips to get him to make that sound again.  He leans forward instead, curving his body over the length of taller man’s spine, cages his arms on either  of his head while he adjusts.  From there he starts to build up to a relentless pace, hammer Jefferson hard, until he’s an incoherent, babbling mess of sweating skin and violent black curls beneath him. Jefferson rabbles off a string of, “please’s and ‘more’s and ‘hamilton’s and ‘fuck’s, spit dribbling out of the corner of his mouth as he shouts and clutches the sheets, rocking his ass back. One particularly hard thrust from Hamilton sends him face first into the mattress.

“Fuuuuuuck” Alexander groans. He can feel the pressure building to its breaking point watching Jefferson come undone like this. He leans back, grips his waist hard and doubles his efforts, plowing the other man’s face into the sheets as he chases his release.

With one hand, Jefferson reaches between his legs to fist his cock tightly, still crying and pleading nonsense into the blankets. He comes first, spilling seed over his knuckles and the bed, and when he clenches down around him  Alexander is doomed to follow his lead. Not a momnet later he comes, orgams hitting him like the rushing tide.

For a long while the two continues to grind  lazily against each other, riding down the high until the friction is more pain than pleasure. Hamilton pulls out and drops like a stone to the mattress, flinging one arm over his face to block out everything but the sound of heavy breathing.

He’s done, wasted, utterly exhausted. Physically, mentally and emotionally. His throat is already starting to burn because of is desperate shouting in the other room and his body is weak, run down by a long, stressful day. With clumsy limbs and numb fingers, her manager to peel of the used condom and drop it to the floor. Then he curls onto his side.

He should leave, he needs to leave. Spending the night here would be a whole ‘nother can of awkward worms that he has no intention of dealing with. Hamilton needs to roll his sorry ass out of bed this instant and throw on his clothes.

But on the other hand. He can’t see straight. It’s nearly one in the morning and he can barely string together two coherent thoughts. And Jefferson’s bed in warm and way softer than those spring loaded mattresses at his dorm. Besides, the virginian has lower himself to the bed as well. His eyelids flutter, then shut all together as he slowly drifts off.

Hamilton should go, he shouldn’t- shouldn’t stay here. It weird and crossing- some sort-

Of-

-line that they-

-Should really-

He’s out before he can find the words.


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm, the notes between two songs, and the quite before Jefferson wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Thursday once again!  
> This chapter is where things are really going to start picking up so I hope you guys enjoy! And as always, I love hearing from you guys so pleas leave a comment or hit me up on tumblr!  
> Thanks to Kyller-Biis and Ham-for-Ham for beta reading as always. <33

When Hamilton wakes, he wakes like the dead. Like some long dormant force emerging from its slumber below the earth. A half hearted grunt escapes him as his consciousness tries to claw its way back into his limp body. He shifts weakly, barely able to open his eyes, so bogged down by exhaustion and unwilling to rise. It’s like fighting his way out of the crypt. Grass cakes under his fingernails and his joints are packed with dirt. He’s heavy, and so suffocatingly warm. Not warm all over, the warmth doesn’t engulf him. As he rouses, senses slowly coming on online, he notes the warmth is pressed against his back. Thoughts and memories crawl in and out of his mushy brain like worms. Is it Lauren’s phantom heat warming his icy corpse?

No

He and Laurens broke up months ago.

So it can’t be him pressed against his back.

Where is John?

Think

Where is he?

Think

Right

The theater, the diner, ditching his friends.

John’s pissed.

He almost died in a car accident with Jefferson.

Right

Jefferson

That’s where he is.

He’s still in Jefferson’s bed. After fucking him

Shit

With a groan, and far more effort than should be necessary, Alexander peels open his eyes, shifting his head just enough to peer over his shoulder. Jefferson is curled against him, shoulder pressed against the center his back. His body is turned away but the  virginian has his cheek smooshed against Hamilton’s shoulder. One arm curls around his broad chest, around his shoulder, fingertips brushing lightly across the top of Alexander’s upper arm. An attempt, perhaps, to gather the sleepy  stage manager to his chest that was abandoned halfway through the motion. As though the virginian thought better of it. Jefferson’s eyelashes flutter against the tops of his sharp cheeks while he sleeps, lips slightly parted, drool pooling out of the corner of his mouth and onto Alexander’s skin.  Hamilton’s stomach starts to twist.

Not with regret. No, he doesn’t regret having sex with Jefferson last night, or, this morning, whenever that was. What time is it? It’s not regret he feels, but more so concern. This is different for them. They hardly kiss and now Alexander’s gone and railed Jefferson into his bed, in his apartment. Then stayed the night, or at least slept here. At least, he didn’t get up and leave right away like he should have. He’s concerned as to what boundaries this over steps. Waking up with Jefferson borrowed against his back and so warm that Hamilton almost feels inclined to relax back into his heat and sleep a few more hours  must break one of their unspoken rules. He’s already toeing too many lines with this sham of a relationship, and he’s not about to let things get needlessly complicated again. 

So as gently and quietly as he can, Alexander shimmies out from under the other man’s weight and lolls into a sitting position on the bed. They haven’t moved from where they hit the sheets last night so he takes that as a good sign. No one got all dotting and went to clean the other up. He’s got to get out of here before Jefferson wakes up and this becomes an even bigger mess than it already is. 

Alexander slides carefully from the mattress, swaying slightly on his feet as a result of standing so soon after waking from such a deep sleep. From there he starts the search for his scattered clothes. He finds and slips on his underwear, dances around the condom still lying on the floor and slides on his jeans. He doesn’t dare do up the zipper, lest the sound of the teeth clicking together wake Jefferson. Hamilton scoops up his shirt and slides it over his head. While he wrestles on his shoes and socks, he watches Jefferson’s sleeping form wearily for any signs of movement, any signs of his stirring. He doesn’t so much as roll over, he just lies there peacefully, chest slowly rising and falling in time with his steady breaths. He looks content, and ridiculously soft when he’s not drawn up in a bunch of jagged angles. He’s not taut and tense like a steel cable, he looks relaxed, pleasant, inviting. The way he looks right now makes Alexander’s heart ache for times he used to have. Sleepy saturday mornings, hungover and teetering on the edge of John’s mattress. Being held though the night. Being woken to the feeling of fingers picking apart the knots in his hair.  He misses sleeping in and just being able to enjoy the person next to him. He longs for that again.

Just- not with Jefferson. Not with this man whom he despises, the man that’s harassed him and belittled him everyday for nearly three years now. It's bad enough he choose him over his friends last night,  bad enough that he allowed them make this a regular arrangement. Alexander’s not going to allow himself to get needlessly close or connected, because this fling they have is only a temporary fixture in his life. Jefferson is the interlude between two swelling songs. The short burst of cords between the booming dance number and what Hamilton hopes will be the slow ballad. If not with Eliza, then surely someone else. Someone who shows him the red he’s looking for.  

Hamilton tucks  his hoodie into his arms and staggers towards the door. There’s a huge, doorknob shaped crater in the wall, probably from when he kicked it back. He prays Jefferson won't have him pay to fix it and stumbles into the hall. The apartment looks so much nicer now, on the right side of one in the morning. The shadows aren't  as harsh, the front room not quite as menacing when bathed in the softer blue of early morning and the pale pink of  a breaking sun rise. Its serene, almost peaceful. Hamilton hope he never grows comfortable with the scene. He hopes the walls of this apartment stay strange and unfamiliar to him. He shrugs on his hoodie and slips his phone from his pocket to get himself an uber back to campus. When he clicks it on however, a single text glares accusingly  up at him. An angry message from John. 

[ Seriously Alex, JEFFERSON? REALLY?! Text me ASAP we need to talk.]

Alexander groans and tries to roll away the building tension from his shoulders. He doesn’t want to talk, he’s sick of all these pointless conversations. He shouldn’t have to defend himself, or explain it. He doesn’t own that to anyone. Not Burr, not John, not even Jefferson. The virginian clearly has his own motivations for sucking Hamilton’s dick that he guards very close to his chest. Alexander doesn’t pry, he doesn’t need to know because he doesn’t care. So long as they can keep up with this impersonal fucking he doesn’t give a shit. And his friends, those not involved in this, shouldn’t give a shit either. Alexander’s not about to be lectured on his behavior again, he’s sick of it. 

With that in mind, he can’t go back to the dorm now, Lauren's will hound his ass all day about this and Alexander is done talking. He spent all his words on the subject last night and he’s got zero interest in breaching the topic again. But if he can’t go home, where will he go? It's too early- what time is it? Only four. He only fell asleep three hours ago. Most people sleep at this time, especially college kids on sunday morning.

Hamilton sighs heavily, finally reaching down to zip and button his jeans. He can go to Laf’s apartment, the frenchman always lets him in no matter the time. Best of all, he won’t try to preach to him, which is exactly the kind of person he needs to be around right now, someone who won’t judge him. With this in mind, Alexander shuffles towards the door, sweeping his messy hair off his neck.

Does he have a hair band? Did he ever have one? He can’t find it.

He’s not missing anything? He pats down his pockets to find his keys and wallet still miraculously inside. He’s got everything. Now, to get out of here, and quick. 

He sets his hand on the doorknob

“You’re still here” A deep voice laced with an unfamiliar southern lilt mumbles from behind him.

The fluids in Hamilton’s body turn to ice, freezing his fingers temporarily to the handle. Slowly, he swivels around.

Jefferson hovers, leaning against the corner of the hall wall, watching Alexander with misty, hard to read eyes. He doesn’t appear happy, or upset, just confused. One hand clutches the wrist of the other over his bare, hair speckled chest. At least he had the decency to throw on pants, even if they’re hideous green and blue flannel.

Alexander anxiously pushes the limp hair from his eyes. “Yeah, ‘passed out I guess. Don’t worry I’m leaving now.”

Jefferson nods dumbly. “Okay”

A long stretch of awkward silence follows his words. Hamilton’s not sure why he hasn’t bolted yet. Maybe it’s his curiosity that keeps him rooted in place, with fingers brushing the doorknob behind him, wondering what the other man plans to do as he shuffles towards him. Jefferson stops just a foot away, still peering down at Hamilton with dark eyes that hold no malice or disgust. Just soft question.

“It’s early.” Jefferson  mutters, arms falling limp by his sides. “Did you want breakfast before you go?”

Hamilton nearly chokes on his tongue at the suggestion. Then he remembers, it's a southern gentleman thing. When he used to go down south with John for spring break his very southern father wouldn’t let them leave the house without a huge, hearty breakfast that Alexander hardly touched. The man’s a big believer of the old southern hospitality troope. He’s also doesn’t believe in gay marriage, but that’s another matter all on it’s own.  Regardless of Laurens’ asshole father, he assumes Jefferson must have been brought up with similar views on how to treat a guest, and he can’t let Alexander leave hungry in good conscious. At least, that's what he’s going to keep telling himself. Over and over again until it’s the undisputable truth. 

The little immigrant shakes his head. “I’m fine, I'm gonna just go now.” he says this softly, because the morning air is soft and it would be wrong to disturb the tranquility of it with harsh words. He makes to open the door once, hand fumbling on the knob, and again, he’s stopped by Jefferson’s gravely morning voice.

“Wait,” he murmured, groggily. And then he’s leaning in, leaning over Alexander. He crowds Alexander against the door, close enough that Hamilton can see the sleep still caught in his lashes and smell his stale morning breath, and for one horrifying moment, Alexander thinks he might kiss him. He doesn’t.

Instead the taller man reaches around Hamilton to a hook on the wall behind him from which he pulls a red flannel scarf. He wraps in clumsily around an embarrassed Alexander’s neck and ears before stepping back to a reasonable distance once more.

“It’s too cold to walk all the back to campus in just a hoodie” he informs Alexander plainly. The shorter man has no words. “I’ll see you later, Hamilton”

“Yeah” he nods breathlessly, finally able to wrap his sweaty palm around the door knob. He wrenches open the door and books it down the hall with his heart slamming against the inside of his throat.

 

The ride to Lafayette’s takes ten minutes flat. He wonders how he hadn’t realized that he and Jefferson  live so close together while he dozes off in the back of his uber. One, excptionally pissy woman glares him down in the lobby as he slips past her into the elevator. Laf gave him key ages ago, but when he gets to his door Alexander leans against the frame and knocks so he doesn’t freak the frenchman out by letting himself in. It is four in the morning after all. Not many people come calling at four in the morning. 

Lafayette greets him with his hair careful pulled back and swaddled in a huge, fluffy pink robe. He nods, smiles sleepily and holds the door wide for Hamilton to stumble inside. The little immigrant grunts out his appercheration and meanders his way through the spacious loft towards the bedroom. Laf only asserts how filthy rich he is in the privacy of his own home. The bed is queen sized, lined with a countable fifty plush, downy pillows,  the softest sheets and poofest comforter. He’s a diva, but a diva that knows what he wants, and Hamilton certainly isn’t going to say anything. He clambers onto the mattress, burrows his way under the mountain of blankets and allows the memory foam to swallow him whole. The sheets shift, Laf slides in beside him and that’s how Alexander falls asleep.

 

He wakes colder, but  not significantly so because the feather down comforter is trying to smother him. He also wakes a lot easier this time. It doesn’t feel like he’s trying to pry his warm, marshmallow body off of hot pavement. This time he rubs his eyes and rolls over onto his back like a human being and not the undead shambling from its crypt. The smell of fresh bread and cinnamon lingers in the air, something sweet like frying ham and bananas. Hamilton raises his arms slowly above his head, curving his spine up with a soft groan in the back of his throat as he stretches out. Then he grunts like he’s been kicked in the gut. His chest is sore and aching from taking that glove compartment to the stomach last night, his ribs are probably bruised to hell. Wonderfull. Fuckinng fantastic. With another groan of discomfort he struggles into a sitting position against the heaping piles of pillows. It feels like someone replaced his lungs with hundred pound slabs of concrete while he was sleeping and he almost decides that breakfast isn't worth it and slumps back into the heat of the bed sheets. Laying here and dying would be so much easier at this point, and it’s not like anyone would miss him much if he starved to death. Half his friends are pissed at him and  really, anyone could don his headset and do his job at this point, the show’s already halfway through its first month. But Alexander never could seem to just let himself die, so the stubborn little immigrant  kicks back the covers and rolls out of bed with much groaning and sharp gasping. 

 

He stumbles down the wide, open hall of Lafayette's loft with sock clad feet, following the smell of fresh yeast into the tiny, brightly colored kitchen. He can feel the temperature difference against his skin as he steps past the threshold. The oven is warm and multiple pans sizzle on the stove top as he drops into a chair around the cute little table already lined with bowls of cut fruit. Lafayette is the only college kid he knows who put this much effort into feeding himself. During finals last semester, Alexander subsisted on protein bars, a pack of black licorice and a Cosco value pack of five hour energy that he stupidly mixed with coffee. By the time papers were due, he could no longer feel his tongue.

Laf tosses him a friendly, albeit a bit drowsy smile as he removes a skillet still cracking with sliced ham from the burner.

“ _ Good Morning  _ Alexander” he says in light, sing song French.

“ _ Morning. _ ” Hamilton bobs his head gently in the cradle of his palm. “ _ What time is it?” _

_ “Nearly ten now”  _ he replies as he starts doling out the food onto plates. 

Crap.

Half the day wasted already. Hamilton runs a hand through his tangled, poofy bedhead. Muffled giggling meets his ears and he glances up wearily at his french companion and his slightly shaking shoulders.

_ “What?” _

Laf waves the question  away with a graceful flick of his wrist, he’s always reminded Alexander of water with  his fluid movements. He sets a warm plate in front of Hamilton. “ _ You speak such silly French, I forget sometimes.” _

A hot red flush rises in the tops of Alexander’s ears. “Merci” he replied  bitterly, exaggerating and over enunciating his syllables as he does, causing Laf to titter like a songbird once more.

Alexander’s  Cerlo accent, buried deep under years of speaking rapid fire english, has a tendency to poke out through his french. He can’t help that he learned them side by side as he grew up, like any other kid in his town. As such, his french tends to be sprinkled with Cerlo phrases and odd grammar that never cease to amuse his friend and his rigid Parisien dialect. Alexander knows he’s not wrong and he knows he’s not stupid, but whenever Laf has to ask him to repeat himself he feels a tad foolish. It the main reason he elected to take Spanish as his language in college. He doesn’t need some hardass with a textbook glaring down their nose at him when he slips into some cerlo phrases. 

Lafayette sits himself down with a plate on Alexander’s right and doesn’t speak again until they’ve started eating. He jabs the end of his fork gently in Hamilton’s direction.  _ “That’s Thomas’ scarf no?” _

He glances down at the soft red plaid still miraculously secured around his neck and groans, burying his face in his free hand. “ _ He’s so weird Laf _ ” he mutters.

“ _ Well I could have told you that _ ” the frenchman replies merrily. “  _ Care to share what you mean?” _

He huffs, setting his fork down on the side of his plate. “ _ He’s making my life even more difficult than usual, like- last night- all he wanted to talk about was he and I. He kept asking what we are, as if it's not obvious and then this morning, he wasn’t even pissed that I was still there.” _

At this Lafayette cocks a careful brow. “ _ You spent the night with him _ ?”

Alexander’s stomach rolls. “ _ I may have had sex with him last night, and I may or may not have fallen asleep in his bed after.” _

_ “Oh Alex” _

“ _ I didn’t mean to.” _ he mumbles, playing with this the edge of his plate nervously. “ _ I guess I was just exhausted, emotionally and physically and I passed out. Anyway, I tried to book it before he got up but he woke up anyway and stopped me before I could leave. He asked me if I wanted breakfast, who does that? He asked me if I needed breakfast then he gave me this scarf because apparently it’s too cold to walk back to campus in just a hoodie, but i’d rather do that then get in a car with him again. He almost killed me last night. But-” _

_ “Alexander,”  _ Laf interjects gently. “ _ slow down little lion, you’re babbling” _   
Hamilton slides a hand across the back of his neck to calm himself before continuing. “ _ He’s being fucking weird, and I hate it. Trying to talk about ‘us’ together, like we’re a couple or something, it’s nauseating. Why can he not just go with it and let this happen without making it messy?” _

_ “And what exactly is ‘this’?”  _  his friend probs gently.

“ _ Sex” _ Hamilton grumbles back. “ _ It’s just sex. Nothing else. _ ”

_ “Does Thomas know that?” _

He opens his mouth, drawing a breath to say ‘yes,’ of course Jefferson knows that their ‘relationship’ is purely physical, but he exhales it a moment later. Before last night he wouldn’t have second guessed his answer because he assumed it was obvious that there are no substantial feels between them. But then Jefferson had to go and ask all those very real questions and make Hamilton doubt that he’s made his message clear. Maybe he’s been giving out different signs without even realizing it, or perhaps, more likely, Jefferson has been misinterpreting the situation. Regardless, last night he made it blatantly clear to the Virginian that there is no ‘them’ and that confirmation should squash any doubt in his mind. Yet he still can’t find it in him to confirm that, and the stupidity soft fabric around his neck is the reason why. Swiftly, he reaches up and wrenches the scarf from his neck, letting it fall to the floor to be forgotten.

Lafayette speaks before he can confirm or deny his question. “ _ You need to be more careful with him Alexander, Thomas feels far deeper than he tends to let on.” _

Hamilton tries to picture Jefferson as an emotionally attuned person but he just can’t. As far as he can tell Jefferson has two default settings; condescending asshole, and pissed off prick. He’s about as deep as a kiddie pool, so Hamilton’s having a hard time suspending his belief that the smug souther dick might actually be a person with feelings, and not just some soulless void that revels in belittling him. He’s as opaque as plastic wrap,  there’s not much to delve into, not much to disphere One moment does swim to the forefront of his mind as he scrapes through his memories for something relevant however. 

“Sorry,” _he’d breathed raggedly as he scooched away from Hamilton as fast as he could_ “I just- don’t like to be crowded. It makes me anxious- people- being around people gives me anxiety. Sorry just-”

That moment still stands out to him as odd.

_ “What do you mean by that Laf?”  _ Alexander probes

Lafayette glances down at his plate somewhat guiltily, like he’s said more than he should have. “ _ Thomas is- he’s sensitive. He does a very good job of hiding it but-” _

“ _ Does he have some sort of anxiety or something _ ” Hamilton presses

His companion shakes his head.  _ “It’s not my place say. _ ”

_ “Come on’ _ he inches forwards so he’s sitting right at the edge of his seat. “ _ You can’t leave me dangling, now I’m curious.” _

But Laf, usually so complacent to his begging, remains resolute. “ _ It you want to know, you should ask him yourself _ ”

Hamilton opens his mouth to argue some more, but as he’s preparing his rebuttal, Lafayette’s phone chimes on the table top and he reaches over to answer it. 

“ _ Hello _ ” a pause, then he tries again, this time in english. “Yes, ‘ello Washington, sir.”

Hamilton tunes the conversation out in favor of picking grumply at his plate. Jefferson has some kind of anxiety, probably social anxiety if his little episode in the dressing room so many nights ago means anything. So what? He hardly sees how that fact is relevant to his current situation. What does Jefferson’s social ineptitude have to do with them sleeping together? It doesn’t make sense that Laf would bring it up. And what’s with all this ‘sensitive’ bullshit? Jefferson is sensitive? What the hell is he suppose to do with that?

“I ‘ave to go,” Lafayette informs him, rising with ease from his chair. “Washington is ‘ave a meeting to discuss some issues with the show.”

Alexander cocks his head to the right, shoulder tensing. He received no such call, and Laf had said ‘I’ not ‘we’, implies that he’s not invited. “He didn’t need me there?” he asks, trying to mask his disappointment running fingers through his hair

The frenchman stretches, shaking his head as he does. “It’s just me, Peggy, George and ‘ercules I believe. ‘E just wants to go over some technical stuff before rehearsal on Monday.”

Shouldn’t Alexander, as a stage manager, be there for that? Couldn’t he benefit from the information they’ll be discussing? Or is his job really as trivial as Jefferson constantly makes it out to be? 

He drops his gaze down to his plate, allowing his hair to fall around his face like dark sheets to cover his sour expression. “Alright, well, good luck I guess”

Lips touch down on the crown of his head. “Feel free to stay as long as you want, my friend.” and with that,  Lafayette waltzes off in the direction of his room, leaving Alexander to stew in his bitter thoughts over  a cold breakfast.

 

After his troubling morning Alexander doesn’t feel like doing much of anything the rest of the day, a rare occurrence but not completely unheard of. Mostly he’s looking for any and every excuse not to go back to his dorm room and confront his other friends. He does shower after Laf has gone which ends up being the most productive thing he does all day. The rest of the early afternoon is spent playing copious amounts of playstation, napping, and feeling sickeningly guilty about wastings such a massive block af free time that he finds it hard to pull any enjoyment from his break. Still, he slugs his way through the better half of Uncharted  3 to keep his mind distracted from the more urgent matters in his life and this new, creeping sense of self doubt burrowing its way in behind his heart. At two he heaves himself off the couch and eats a slice of leftover pizza cold without bothering to grab a plate or even close the fridge door. He’s really winning at this whole ‘adulting’ thing he’s sure. After ice cold pepperoni with peppers he plops himself back down in front of the tv and that’s exactly where Lafayette finds him five hours later, buried under his fleece throw blanket and nestled into the space between two cushions.

The frenchman was nice enough to bring Alex back a burger and some fries from his favorite drive thru, he must have anticipated that Hamilton would still be here, and they sit on the sofa together and eat while Laf fills him in on what was discussed at the meeting. Hamilton refuses to feel bitter about not having had to go, he refuses to be jealous of his friend simply because Washington promoted Laf over him. That leaves him with a bruised pride that he can’t bring himself to ignore. He nods politely while shoving fries in his face as he listens to what Laf tells him but deep down, somewhere between his ribs he can’t help but feel a little indignant. Is his role in this show really so unimportant that there’s no need to have him at meetings like that? Does Washington think so little of all the hard work that he does that he doesn’t feel the need to keep him informed? Is he really such an inconsequential part of this production? Hamilton hates these questions and even more so, he hates that he’s inclined to answer ‘yes’ to most of them. Maybe he is just a babysitter with a clipboard. He’s not very hungry after he comes to that conclusion. 

Around ten he receives a worry text from Herc asking where he is. Nice to know that someone gives a shit about him. Neither Laurens or Burr tried to contact him all day. Regardless, the message tells him that it’s probably time to head home. He has absolutely no desire to witness whatever shit show may await him when he steps back into his dorm, but he has class and rehearsal tomorrow and he desperately needs a decent night's sleep in his own bed and change of cloths. Lafayette offers to drive him back and they get to campus in about fifteen minutes. When Alexander makes to get out of the car, the other man stops him, just long enough to shove Jefferson’s scarf into the front pocket of his hoodie with a knowing look that rubs him the wrong way. With a huff and a hurried thank you, he pops out of the car.

The days are getting shorter and colder, soon New York will be covered in blankets of snow heavier than Laf’s downy comforter. Hamilton shoves his frigid hands into his hoodie pocket and shuffles up the sidewalk to his building. As he walks, he rolls the fleece-y fabric of the plaid scarf over and over again between his fingers. It pleasantly soft and warm in his hand and it fills him with disgust. Jefferson is a stupid asshole and his scarf is fucking stupid too. 

He takes the stairs up to the third floor, dragging his feet on the steps in a lame attempt to stave off the inevitable. Maybe, if he’s lucky, John will have already gone to bed by the time he unlocks the door.

But his pisspoor luck follows in the same shitty pattern it has his entire life. When he pushes the door open, John is sitting on the sofa, almost like he was waiting for him. He glances up at the sound of the door hitting the frame, usually soft caramel eyes hard when they fall on Alexander. The sharp look is all it takes to put the immigrant on the defencive. 

“What the hell Alex?!” is the first thing out of John’s mouth when Hamilton steps into the space. The freckled man is all wild hair and furrowed brows as he jumps to his feet.

A low simmer has begun in Alexander’s chest. Mechanically he sets his keys in the bowl by the door before turning to face Lauren's, arms crossed swiftly over his chest. “What?” he answers cooly.

John looks like he could hit something. He’s way more upset over this than Alexander thought he would be.

Good, he could use a fight right about now. 

“What do you mean ‘what?’ You were out all night, gone all day, where they hell were you?!”   
“I was out” he shoots back. He’s in that scary place right now. Dancing on the edge of full blown rage. In this sort of emotional twilight Hamilton is almost eerily calm, his voice low and lethal and his movements cold and reserved, but it won’t take much to push him over the edge.

“No fucking shit, dude” John mutters harshly. “So, what? You go out with Jefferson and suddenly you’re too good to pick up your goddamn phone?”

“Maybe I would have picked up my phone if you weren’t being a jackass!” he snaps back.

“You ditch us and somehow I’m the asshole? No, I don’t think so Alexander, you’re the one in the wrong this time, not me. I’m sure hanging around Jeffershit makes you feel all high a mighty but you were a huge dick last night.”

Alexander runs hands roughly through his tangled hair. “Well I’m sorry I don’t spend every waking moment hanging out with you. I have my own life, my apologies” he bites back sarcastically. “That is what this is about right? You’re all butthurt that I had better things to do then go to fucking Denny in the middle of the night?!”

“No!” John shouts back. His hands curl into fists at his sides. “It’s about you not telling any of us that you’ve been dating Jefferson for however fuckin’ long it's’ been. I thought we were friends but you’re sneaking around behind our backs and-!”

“-Why in fuck do you think I’m dating  Jefferson?” Hamilton asked heatedly.

“Because you-”

“What? Because I left with him last night? Is that really all the evidence you cared to gather before crucifying me?! I don’t have to be dating him to fuck him!”

Shit

He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, but it’s far too late to take it back now.

John’s eyes stretched wide with horror. “You’re what-? Why!?”   
“Because he’s attractive?” Hamilton sighs, flexing out tension though his fingers. “Because he’s a good lay? Because he’s willing? Fuck John, take your pick. Why else does anyone have casual sex? Jesus christ, I know you’ve had your fair share of one night stands and meaningless flings so why are you being so weird about this?”

“Because it’s Jefferson, and I hate him”

What the fuck does that have to do with anything?

“Yeah” Alexander replied, flicking his wrist with exasperation. “So do I. And last time I checked you’re not the one he’s blowing, nor have I been recounting vivid details of my affairs to you so why should it even matter?! And just so you know, because you’re so fucking curious, I was at Laf’s all day today.”

Laurens folds his arms tightly across his chest. “So you’ll talk to Laf about this but not me.”

Alexander gawks at him. “Do you even hear yourself? You sound like a desperate ex girlfriend John, just drop it!”

“Break up with him” John snaps back.

“No!” 

“Why not!?” Laurens barks back

Hamilton takes a bold step forward, unfazed by the few inches the other man has on him. “One: because fuck you, that’s why. Two: I don’t want to. Three: It’s none of your fucking business who I hook up with. And four: I’m a consenting adult and I don’t have to do what you tell me to” Hamilton’s got a bad habit of doing shit just because someone told him not to and one of these days it's going to get him killed.   
“Well then dickhead, we’re no longer friends!”

“What?!” he shouts, utterly baffled by the leap in logic. How much more grade school can this conversation get? Is John really so petty and self absorbed that he would put a rift in the friendship over this? “What the shit? Why?!”

“Because I don’t want to talk to you while you’re- associating with him”

“You’re acting like a child.” he counters cooly.

“And you’re a fantastic prick Alexander Hamilton!” Laurens shouts back. The he turns, slaps one of the pillows off the couch and to the floor before storming off to his room like the huffy toddler he is, leaving Hamilton rooted in front of the door with his chest heaving.

He takes a moment to steady his breath before he too stomps off to his room, steam pouring off of him in waves. When he wrenches open the door Burr is inside, sitting cross legged on his bed. He glances up at Alexander owlishly from his book but Alexander ignores him in favor of throwing himself onto his bed and dragging the sheets up his ears, still wearing his busted up sneakers.

This all fucking Jefferson’s fault, he thinks hotly as he wrestles his pillow into submission. If Jefferson had just left things alone, if he’d just gone with the flow and not worried about stupid pointless shit like ‘where he stands’, if he hadn’t been so fucking concerned with ‘them’, like ‘them’ was even a thing Hamilton wouldn’t be in this fucking mess. Alexander can’t fathom why everyone feels the need to police his behavior. It's not like he’s the first person to get into something like this and he certainly won’t be the last, so then why is it him everyone is targeting? It’s not fair, not fair that he can’t just do as he pleases and have a little fun. This ‘relationship’ has made things far more complicated than he ever intended, and yet he refuses to end things. Maybe it’s because he’s a stubborn ass trying to prove a point, or maybe Jefferson is some sort of parasite that’s fucked its way into  his brain. Whatever the reason, Hamilton refuses to lose this game. He’s still in control of this affair and he’ll end it when he damn well feels like it. Just not right now, not today.


	8. The Aparment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander needs a place to escape the pressure of his dormroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OML only two chapters left! Let me know what you think of the story so far, I love to hear from you!!  
> Thanks to Ham-for-Ham and Kyller-Biis for beta reading!!!

Eight am classes are a horrible idea and Hamilton can't fathom how he’s still not learned this lesson after two years of them. Every time he signs up for his classes for the upcoming semester he hovers hesitantly over the box for that early morning class, and every time he checks it. He reasons with himself that he’s up at that time anyway, that he’s been going to school at the hour for a decade now anyway so it can’t hurt, that it's the perfect way to cram the most into his day. But when his alarm blares at six am, then again at six forty-five he knows he’s made a grave mistake.

With a hideous groan, Hamilton pushes himself into a sitting position on his spring-loaded mattress and sweeps his limp hair out of his face. His chest is still aching, a dull throb that makes him wince when he leans forward to untie his duct taped shoes and throws them to the floor. This is the third morning this outfit has seen and Alexander is starting to feel grimy. With a resigned little sigh, he reaches into the front pocket of his sweatshirt to pull out his wallet and his phone before stripping it off, but his fingers brush over something much softer. Carefully he extracts the wicked scarf Laf had so rudely shoved into his pocket the night before. He examines it with dull eyes, twisting it between his hands so he can better take it in. it’s heavy and warm and soft. Bright red and black plaid with little tassels adorning the hems. It’s nice but it’s also Jefferson’s so by extension he must hate it. The innocent piece of fabric reminds him that his world is crumbling down around his ears. Angry, he balls it up in his fist and chucks it under his bed alongside the ruined pair of work jeans, the other article of clothing that makes him think of that southern bastard.

Speaking of southern bastards, it's still early enough that he can sneak out of the dorm without running into John, which will be a blessing. He’s still bitter over their fight from last night and unready to face his friend, the wounds left by their words still too fresh.

 

And yet the day still marches on, unaffected by his sour mood and un bending to his desire to spend a few more minutes in the quiet of his dark room. So Hamilton heaves himself out of bed and set about his usual morning routine. Shower, change, try and make himself look presentable, maybe today is the day he’ll actually do something nice with all this long brown hair. It doesn't happen, he just throws it up in a loose ponytail and pulls on his weathered jeans. He brushes his teeth, checks his email, breakfast this morning is another granola bar which he munches on glumly and kicks himself for being too stubborn to take up Lafayette’s offer to be roommates. After he scarfed down his pathetic excuse for a meal he weaves back and forth as quietly as he can, rifling through his mess to find the textbooks he needs so he can shove them in his messenger bag. Only, he can’t find his bag. It’s not hanging on the back of his desk chair like it usually is. He searches but can’t find it anywhere, not in his room, or the living room, or the kitchen. He starts to panic. His laptop is in that bag, so is his binder full of show notes. Did he leave it at the theater the other night in his rush to get out of there? No that can be right, Alexander distinctly remembers the weight of the strap on his shoulder when he left the dressing room. He must have had it with him when he got upstairs then and he wouldn’t have put it down anywhere after that except maybe-

“Fuck” he mutters sharply under his breath.

His bag is at Jefferson’s apartment.  In his sleep deprived delirium he must have forgotten to grab it before bolting out the door. The little immigrant huffs, tugging fingers through his ponytail.

He doesn’t have time to go and get it now and he only really has a rough idea of where Jefferson lives. With the heavy weight of defeat on his shoulders, Alexander digs up an ancient notebook and a ball point pen from his desk and shoves them under his arms with the rest of his books. Class today is going to be taxing.

 

Monday, he has three classes. Eight am, Nine Fifteen, and Ten Thirty. He scratches all the lecture notes by hand and bemoans that fact that he’s going to have to find time later to recopy them into his computer. The last five minutes of his last class he shoots Laf a text asking for Jefferson’s address. The reply comes moments later with no teasing comment tacked on to the end and Hamilton isn’t sure if that's a good sign or a bad one. Whatever, his entire life is like a cheap carnival ride right now, slamming him repeatedly into the sides of his rickety cart whenever the opportunity arises. All that matters right now is getting his bag back. He busses over to Jefferson’s today because it's cheaper then another uber and drags himself up the steps to his floor. Surely he remembers the door number. 328 or sometime like that. He can just knock on every door until he gets the right one, it’s not like he hasn't done that before.

It is 328 however, he only has to hammer the door a few times before he hears the distinct sound of socks shuffling on carpet, then the door swings open. Jefferson pokes his head out. Real Jefferson, the man made up of hard lines and tight lipped smirks, not of misty morning eyes and trembling fingers. Alexander swallows down the peach pit building in the back of his throat. Sweet normalcy, no matter how thing in his life seem to be shifting, Jefferson’s disdain for him is truly unwavering and he finds that oddly refreshing.

The Virginian glower down at him. “I’m regretting showing you where I live.” he mutters, easing the door a little wider, but not so much so that Hamilton would think that he’s inviting him in. “I’m not in the mood for a booty call right now so why don’t you find someone else to bother.”

“Is that literally the only reason you think I’d be here?” he inquires bitterly.

The taller man shrugs. Alright, fair enough

Hamilton sighs, rubbing a hand fiercely across the forehead. “Listen, I forgot my bag here yesterday and just came to pick it up alright? So can you please let me in so I can do that?”

A lingual eye roll. “I suppose.” he swings the door wide, allowing Alexander to duck inside under his arm.

This is the third time he’s seen this room, and again it's in a completely different light. Cold sun from the icy midday sky paints the whole space a sort of steely blue and gray. It looks a lot more lived in like this, with Jefferson’s jacket thrown haphazardly over the back of the couch, books piled in a leaning stack on the desk, shoes laying in odd places across the floor. His bag sits on the carpet, against the half wall that separates the kitchenette from the rest of the main room. He rushes over to grab it. Feeling relieved for the first time all day, he sighs deeply. Behind him Jefferson scoffs and he ignores him in favor of slinging the strap across his chest and straightening up.

But now he realizes something crucial- he has a massive amount of work and nowhere to go. Like hell he’ll go back to his dorm, not with Burr and Laurens there. He’ll start more fights than papers if he has to be subjected to their withering stares for the next couple of hours. He supposed the library is always an option but he never gets anything substantial done when it's full of people, and with midterms just around the bend the place will no doubt be pack. And while he knows Lafayette’s door is always open to him Alexander feels guilty for abusing his friend’s generosity. Laf is entitled to his own space and privacy, it's rude to just barge in there and expect the Frenchman to accommodate him, and he knows that he would. Running out of places he furrows his brow. Angie might have let him hole up in one of the spare rooms in her town house before everything that happened with Eliza, and the theater is only a good option if Washington doesn’t catch him.

“Is there something else you needed, or are you practicing to be a set piece in the next play?” Jefferson asks him in a low, board drawl.

Hamilton blinks over at him while the little gears in his mind spin. He’s doesn’t care if he’s an inconvenience to Jefferson.

“Hey-” Alexander starts slowly, taking a few shuffling paces towards the other man. “Do you think maybe I could just- ya know- stay here a while. Just for a few hours. My roommates are all being assholes right now and really don’t have another quiet place I could work, and really have to finish some of this work because I know I won't have time tomorrow because I have class all day. So can I just borrow your sofa for a little, just until three?” and he’s rambling again, barely breathing as he prattles off a hand full of silly reasons to an almost amused Jefferson. “You know what, this was stupid, never mind. I’ll hole myself up at the coffee place I passed on the way over here, I guess. I'll let myself-”

“If I let you sit on my couch, will you please stop talking?” the Virginian interjects wearily.

Hamilton pauses, then nods mutely, pressing his lip together to contain his disobedient tongue.

With deep seated sigh Jefferson pushes the curls from his eyes “You can stay. Just don’t make a mess and don’t go through my stuff.” he then snatches a well-worn looking notebook from his desk. “I’ll be in my room if you absolutely need something.” with that he departs down the hall, leaving Alexander to hover awkwardly in the middle of his living room.

That was- oddly nice of the other man. This isn’t the first time Hamilton has talked his way into something he wants but, he never figured Jefferson would be complacent when he’s usually so put off by him. Best not to push his luck by questioning him, or make it uncomfortable by trying to pry into his reasoning and just be happy that he has a quite place to work. The little immigrant clambers up onto the couch, throws his bag down on the cushions and slides his laptop from it so he can start a few of his assignments.

There he sits, undisturbed for at least three hours. During that time he blocks out the rest of the world and escapes into his essays, typing frantically until three and his wrist starts to ache.

With a groan, Hamilton sets his laptop to the side and rubs fists into his dry, stinging eyes. His legs are cramping from having them bent at such an undesirable angle for such along stretch of time. He stands, a little wobbly on his feet, and stretches his arms high above his head so he can hear the pop of his sleepy joints. For a moment, he contemplates grabbing some water from the sink before heading over to the theater, it's late enough now that Washington wouldn’t send him home, but before the thought is fully formed a distant, mournful wailing distracts him.

Confused, his face scrunches up as he strains to hear the sound again, because maybe he misheard. But no, he can defiantly hear something, something oddly low but ping-y. It's still to faint for him to make it out, so he follows the distracting sound down the hall where it's seems to be emanating from. The sound swells, and after a few steps, Alexander picks up an unfamiliar melody as he creeps along. The music leads him to Jefferson’s bedroom door, which is propped open just a crack, just enough that Hamilton can get a peek at the space within. The immigrant steps as close as he dares, craning his neck to see if he can spy whatever it is making that noise.

Through the sliver between the door frame and the door he catches sight of Jefferson. He’s facing the window, back straight, cradling a violin in his raised arms. He draws the bow across the strings with the same calculated grace he uses to deliver his lines, poised on the balls of his feet with his shoulders back, creating that rich, mournful sound.

Alexander not sure why he’s as surprised as he is that Jefferson plays violin. He seems like the type, all long long fingers and rigid posture. He wonders if he had to learn as a child like he had had learned piano. Wonders if someone stood behind him while he played the scales, breathing down his neck, poking and prodding at him until his back was straight, his elbows far enough apart. Nuns and authoritative parents tend to be overbearing when it comes to matters of music for some strange reason. Still, Hamilton finds himself not only enraptured by the melody, but by the man crafting it as well. Jefferson moves his whole body as he plays, swaying along to the bittersweet tune he’s pulling from the strings. Its captivating, Alexander finds himself hovering when he really ought to be getting ready to go, he can’t seem to tear himself away from this impromptu performance. Minutes pass quickly, escaping like sand from his loosening fingers as he takes a moment, just one moment to live in the present. He doesn’t worry himself with thoughts of his friends, or fears of future failures. His lungs don’t draw tight at the idea of wasting a few precious seconds. No, for once, he allows himself a guiltless moment of just being present. It's far more enjoyable then pulling out his hair with worry.

Eventually, Jefferson stops lowering his instrument from his chin and dropping his bow to his side.

“Are you just going to hover there for the rest of the day, what do you want?” he calls over his shoulder.

Alexander flinches, the sudden acknowledgement warming his cheeks red. How long has Jefferson known he was standing here? Embarrassed he straightens and pushes into the room carefully.

“It's time to head over to for the show.” he says plainly, taking a few steps past the threshold.

Jefferson gives him an unamused look. “Call isn't for another three hours.” he replies

“For you” Alexander retorts. He folded his arms over his front. “Besides, you’re always late. If we leave now you might actually be on time for once.”

“Ha ha, witty as every I see” he deadpans back.

Hamilton shoots him a cheeky smirk. “I do have my moments of brilliance.”

“Very rarely.” Jefferson mutters under his breath. He then turns to set his violin down. “Give me a few minutes to get ready, I’ll drive us over.”

He grimaces at this, rubbing a hand over is bruised ribcage. The motion does not go unnoticed by his companion.

“Don’t worry” Jefferson says as he sets his instrument gently into the velvet folds of its case. “As long as you promise to keep your big, distracting mouth shut, I won’t drive us into oncoming traffic.”

A mischievous grin works its way onto Alexander's lips. “So you think my mouth is distracting?” he teases

Jefferson shuts his case lid shut with a sharp snap, shooting the smaller man a withering glare out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t test me Hamilton, I can still make you walk.”

He hums gently in response, then: “Hey, I still have the stupid scarf you forcible imparted on me the other day”

“Keep it” the taller man replies drying, making for the door. As he passes Alexander he pauses a moment, giving the sleep deprived stage manager a quick once over. “It suits you, I think.” and with that he brushes past into the hall. Hamilton watches him go. There’s another, incredibly fresh looking bruise just below his chin, still pink and tender looking. Then it clicks. Jefferson was oddly adamant about fidelity for a man walking around with hickeys up and down his neck and now Alexander get why. They were never hickies to begin with. Jefferson’s got fiddler’s neck, his violin left welts under his chin. A stupid grin tugs at the corners of Alexander’s mouth at the ridiculousness of it and his heart does a sort of double take in his chest.

 

 

Over the next week Alexander finds himself spending less time at his dorm and more of it in Jefferson apartment. There are two key reasons for this. His roommates play the biggest part in this change. His patients for Lauren’s pre-teen response to finding out about what he and Jefferson have been getting up to is fading faster than he could have thought possible. He’s making the space practically unlivable with all his huffing and stomping and heated looks, glaring Alexander down whenever they’re unlucky enough to cross paths. It’s so annoying that John is acting like an utter child, so Hamilton has started coming home later and later, until eventually he stopped coming back to the dorm all together. And the more time he spends at the Jefferson’s, the madder John gets. Thus, the vicious cycle continues. He’s also been spending more nights in Jefferson’s bed because recently, they’ve stopped with the hurried hand jobs in secluded hallways during intermission and starts fucking regularly after the show. He can’t complain about the increased privacy or the silky feel of Jefferson bedsheets on his knee and the backs of his thighs. They’re probably fucked on every surface in that apartment by now and Hamilton like that he can really take his time to pick the smug bastard apart piece by piece. He presses him into walls and countertops until they’re both too exhausted to stand After, he reasons with himself that he’s too tired to trudge home, so he sleeps curled up at the opposite side of Jefferson's bed and in the mornings he hangs about the flat like a stray cat, waiting warily for Jefferson to shoo him off. He doesn’t, Alexander is left to work in relative peace most days, hours spent writing between classes and rehearsal.

It’s by no mean perfect or ideal, they are very good at ignoring each other, until they’re not.  For instance, the other day Alexander bought over his collection of five hour energy so he could work more efficiently, only to find that the other man had thrown them out by the time he got back from class. He screamed himself hoarse at Jefferson for nearly an hour before disappearing into the quaint little coffee shop down the street until later that night because the two of them pseudo living together is going about as well as one could imagine. Alexander was still pissed about the whole ordeal after the performance that night and he was sure to express it to Jefferson when they got back to the apartment. Rigorously, and multiple times. That was Friday.

Sunday morning Hamilton wakes up at the asscrack of three in the morning with an inexplicable knot into the depths of his stomach over his upcoming term paper for his humanities class. It‘s still not due for another two weeks and he already has a skeletal outline for it saved to his google drive but that doesn’t stop his stomach from churning violently as he lays in there, staring dully up at the ceiling for fifteen minutes. Eventually he sighs, rolling away from the sweltering heat of the bed’s other occupant. Jefferson burns like an old radiator in his sleep, which is nice because Alexander doesn't seem to retain any heat on his own.

Feeling helpless, the little immigrant throws back the blankets and staggers to his feet, then out of the room. He fumbles through the apartment in the dark, feeling his way into the kitchen, over to the fridge. Bright light and cool air spill across the icy tiles as he peers sleepily inside. Usually Jefferson keeps some caffeinated tea drinks in here, but instead of vivid pastel bottles, viscous black and green can assault his view. There's a new looking pack of Monsters in the fringe ‘Alexander’ scrolled across the top in black sharpie. Odd, he didn’t buy them, which means Jefferson must have. Their presences doesn’t make any sense but Hamilton is still to out of it to really care. Might as well use them if he has them.

He grabs three of the cans, cradling them in his arms as he shuts the fridge door once more and trudged over to the sofa. He sets them on the coffee table, then fetches his laptop from beneath Jefferson's desk, where he’s been keeping it ever since the two of them nearly tripped over it in their haste a few nights before. Alexander flips it open, pops open one of the menacing cans and setting to work, each keystroke easing his mind a little more.

When the sun peeks up over the lip of the windowsill Jefferson trudges past him. He blinks warily at him and his two open drinks on his way to the kitchen.

“The hell are you doing up this early on a Sunday?” he asks groggily, digging the sleep from his eyes.

Hamilton fixes his gaze back on the paragraph he was pounding out before Jefferson so rudely interrupted him and grunts.

An airy sign and the sound of dishes being clinked together.

“You eat anything yet?” Jefferson asks

A grunt from Alexander.

“Asshole” he replies.

Hamilton snarls.

He only half listens as Jefferson shuffles around him, getting ready for the day. Sometime later Alexander sees him pulling on his coat in his peripheral vision. “I have class all day today. Don't make a mess on the carpeting while I’m gone.”

Hamilton sort of nods to indicate that he heard him and is meet with the sound of the slamming door as a response.

He doesn’t do much all day except hammer at the keys of his keyboard but he’s feeling more productive then he has in months. A few times he gets up to use the bathroom, deplete his supply of energy drinking even further and little else. His wrist is burning and his fingers trembling by the time Jefferson returns at- dark, whenever that is, Alexander lost track of the time at around noonish.

The Virginian set his things down on his already overburdened desk before glace over at Hamilton’s practically sedentary form. His eyebrows draw tight together in a scowl.

“I’m pretty sure this is exactly how I left you.” he says slowly, stripping off his coat as he doesn’t. “Have you moved at all today?”

“Of course” he shoots back curtly, not tearing his eyes from his computer screen.

Jefferson makes disdainful clicking sound with his tongue as he breezes pasts. “Whatever, I’m going go take a shower.”

“I don't care what you do” Hamilton calls after him.

He’s not interrupted again for another hour or two.

Jefferson is in the kitchenette, banging around pots and pans and generally being a pain in Alexander’s ass.

“Have you eaten anything today?” he calls, the top of his fluffy head poking up from under the countertop.

Alexander grunts, slamming the back key rapidly. His back is starting to ache from sitting in the same position for close to fourteen hours now, but he’s nearly done with this. Just a few more paragraphs, maybe and another page, or ten.

“You can’t subsist on caffeine and sheer force of will, Hamilton” Jefferson snaps. “Lord, no wonder you’re so tiny.”

He rolls his eyes, a little flicker before returning to his work. It’s worked for him this long hasn’t it? And who is Jefferson to call him ‘tiny’ he’s not tiny- he’s scrappy.

“Hamilton” Jefferson says again, more forcefully this time. “You have to eat something”

“I’m almost finished” he mutters back. “I’ll eat as soon as I’m done”

An irritated huff from the other man. “Why even bother” he mumbles, so low under his breath that Alexander nearly misses as he starts slamming pans once more.

After he eats, Jefferson retired to his room for the night, and Hamilton continues to plug on. He’s lost track of how many energy drinks he’s consumed, can’t even count how many litter the coffee table as his vision is to blurry to discern a number. He’s not sure what time it is exactly but his internal clock is telling him it late. Its written in the clumsy drag of his finger over the keys. He’s nearly done, he’ll head home as soon as he’s done. He just needs another hour, at least. Quickly he scans over his work with stinging eyes. A quote would fit in perfectly right here and he thinks he knows the perfect one. He pulls up another tab so he’s sure he’s think of the right person then starts to jot it down in his essay.

An hour passes, then another. His consciousness is starting to break down, but he presses on regardless. He can’t stop when he’s so close to finishing, what a waste of time it would be to have to pull this up again tomorrow to tap out the last few sentences.

“Are you seriously still here?” a scratchy southern accent asks him.

Hamilton loses a high pitched whine in response, shaking fingers still flying over keys.

Jefferson lumbers into his line of sight, a towering, shadowy mass in the corner of his vision, wrapped up it a bathrobe.

He folds his arms tightly across his front. “Alexander you need to sleep, your constant clinking is giving me a headache.”

Alexander presses his lips into a firm, thin line. Jefferson needs to leave him alone so he can wrap this paper up quickly.

Instead of leaving, the Virginian takes a handful of steps closer towards him. “Jesus” he mutters, pick one of the discarded cans off the table by his knee. “How many of these did you drink?”

Seriously, shut up

“Alexander, how long have you been up?”

Shut up

“Hamilton you’re self-destructing, you need to stop for the night”

Shut. up.

“Hamilton, did you hear what I just said-?”

_“CAN YOU SHUT UP?! JESUS CHRIST YOU’RE SUCH AN ANNOYING BASTARD, JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!”_ he shrieks, leaping suddenly and unsteadily to his feet. His laptop would have gone soaring it not for the hand he wrapped around the back of it.

Jefferson stares at him, then blinks, brows furrowed in confusion, probably. Hamilton’s been staring at the bright screen for so long his retinas are fried.

“You wanna try that again, maybe in English this time?” the taller man drawls.

It’s Hamilton's turn to be confuses. “Wha...”

Oh god

_Oh god_

When was the last time he lost track of his languages like that? Freshman year? Back then he was still struggling to express himself with English, he just couldn't make the grammar work as fast as his thoughts and he ending up ranting in French until his throat had gone numb, even more frustrated that he couldn’t make the words go the way he needed. Eventually, someone had pulled him away before things got any more heated, taking pity on this scrawny little boy screaming his head off. That someone turned out to be Mulligan, his first real friend stateside. But that was years ago. He’s mastered the fluidity of English by now so why had he slipped. Burning with shame, he drops his gaze from Jefferson’s bewildered eyes, glancing over at his computer instead.

His eyes go wide. The whole screen it filled with French text.

How?

Then he remembers that the quote he’d used was in French, and when he typed it out he hadn’t bothered to switch back afterwards. He’s been writing in French for the past however many hours and his mind was to fucked to even register it.

With groan of dismay, he sinks back onto the couch, burying his flushed face in his hands. There’s the shuffling sound of cotton socks on carpet, and a moment later large hands rest on the tops of his shoulders.

“You’re going to kill yourself like this” Jefferson murmurs. His fingers carefully pull the collar of his shirt away from his neck before sliding under the hem.

A deep, low moan emanated from the depths of Alexander’s throat. With a sickeningly sinking feeling in his gut he knows that Jefferson is right. This isn’t even one of his worst night and yet he’s already fraying at his seams. It’s hard to control his urge to write when he gets that hopeless feeling in his chest that spurs him to write an upwards of thirty hour long blocks at a time. But his body wasn't designed to keep up with his frantic mind.

Behind him, Jefferson starts to rub his shoulders, thumbs digging into his taut muscles roughly, making him gasp. “Come to bed, darling’”

Despite the pleasant pain, Hamilton jerks away from his grasp. “Don’t touch me” he mumbles into his fingers.

Jefferson sighs heavily, but does drop his hands, not a moment later however, he can feel the dig of his chin in the top of his shoulder. The Virginian wraps his arms around his middle and presses his nose into his hair, lips ghosting across his neck. And he’s just always so warm, like a hot water bottle, Alexander’s fatigued little body can’t help but melt against him a little bit. Maybe he could- stay like this for a while?

No. No he has work that needs to be done and better things to do with his time then snuggle up with Jefferson.

“I’m gonna go” he mutters begrudgingly but he doesn’t make much effort to stand. His dorm may suck right now but at least everyone will be asleep when he gets there so he can finish this assignment.

The arms around his middle tighten slightly, Jefferson splays one hand out over his chest to pin him to the back of the couch. The fingers nearly span the entirely of Alexander’s chest. “And where exactly do you think you’re going?” Jefferson inquiries before laying an open mouthed kiss right behind his ear. “You ignore me all day-” more kisses. The taller man drags his hot, open mouth along Alexander’s neck, pressing long, wet kisses to his throat, his shoulders, under his chin. Whenever his hungry mouth can reach, and Alexander shudders under the attention. The hand on his chest rubs slow circles into his stomach. “- And you just expect me to let you leave just like that? I don’t think so sweetheart.”

Here he nips roughly at Hamilton’s ear lobe, which causes the little immigrant to gasp aloud, eyes fluttering shut. He feels daring hands slide over the top of his thighs then suddenly Jefferson is cupping his stirring cock. He tosses back a desperate moan at the feel of it, letting the other man stroke him slow and gentle, dragging the fabric of his sweatpants against his sensitive skin. His head lolls back onto Jefferson’s firm chest. It's far too easy to submit to this. He’s too tired to deny his body what it wants, and what it wants is for Jefferson to keep pulling at his dick like this. He sets a hand over Jefferson’s, rolling his hips up lazily into the touch.

The other man grazes his teeth over the spot right behind his ear. “Let me take care of you darlin’. I’ll wear you out until you can't keep your eyes open any longer.”

Breath catches in Hamilton’s throat. “You’re gonna wear me out?” a breathless, choked out laugh. “I’d like to see you try”

Nips and kisses along the underside of his neck. Jefferson rubs the heel of his palm along his shaft. “I’d be happy to prove to you just how willing I am to try.” he mutters hoarsely in his ear.

With the Virginian’s help, Alexander hurriedly heaves himself from the sofa, and the pair stagger off towards Jefferson’s room.


	9. A Real Showstopper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton starts to fall into patterns with Jefferson. Over the past week or so there are things he's come to expect. this lingering strangeness is not one of these. How much stress is he expected to handle?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOO man, second to last chapter already! This was a fun fic for me to write and I'm glad that you've been enjoying the story so far!! Leave a comment or hmu on Tumblr, I love hearing from you guys!  
> Thanks to Kyller-Biis and Ham-for-Ham for beta reading <33

 

When Alexander wakes up that Friday there are only two performances between him and the end of the show. Wednesday is their last rehearsal and the up coming Saturday will be the last run of the show. The climax of a shows life always tends the leave Alexander a little restless. On the one hand, he’s relieved that the end is now in sight. No matter how great a show is or how attached he gets to it, by the last few day he is ready for the stress of stage managing to be over and he’s looking forward to his traditional fourteen hour nap when the lights finally go down. But the ending of a show also tends to make Hamilton tense, determined as he is to leave a good lasting impression of the performance in everyone's mind before he retires his binder. It can also be hard to say goodbye. He does get very attracted to the shows he produces, grows accustomed to the rigour rehearsal schedule and when it all ends he gets his hollow pang in his stomach. This time however, he’s wringing out his fingers for a different reason. 

Hamilton has no idea what life after this show is going to look like. He’s burned a lot of vital bridges over the past couple of months. Burr looks at his with pity whenever Alexander sneaks into their room to grab new clothes or school books and generally makes Alex feel like a guilty piece of shit. Laurens still refuses to talk to him, like some petty grade school child, and Herc almost alway sides with John so Hamilton has been disconnected with his friends for a few weeks now. Except for Laf, but he’s been busy doting on the new love of his life and Alexander is loath to disturb his and Peggy’s honeymoon bliss with his problems. He screwed up royal with Eliza and while she seems not mind very much, still speaking to him in that kind way that she does, Angelica hasn’t been as quick to forgive him for ‘breaking her sister’s heart’.

He wonders what will happen when the curtains fall on closing night. Ideally, once the bows are taken, the  horrid curse that’s been plaguing him ever since auditions will break, and things will go back to normal. But normal means he and Jefferson will go back to hating each other without any of the added benefits and that sits strangely in Alexander’s  gut. He likes this arrangment, maybe not the waking up almost every morning in Jefferson’s huge bed with the other man curled at his side but he definitely enjoys getting to fool around with him whenever he pleases. He’s not quite ready to give that up.

The sun is already peeking its way through Jefferson bedroom window when Hamilton’s eyes start to flutter open. It a sight that is unfamiliar with him seeing as it's late November and he’s usually up before light even breaches the horizon. With a groan which he muffles in his pillow, Alexander rolls to his right, unconsciously seeking out the warm patches of bedsheets but the mattress is unusually cold. He cracks open one bleary eye and shrugs the blankets higher to protect his bare shoulder for the bite of approaching snow just outside the window. Jefferson is shuffling quietly in and out of his line of sight, picking up clothes here and there.

“What time is it?” Alexander crocks from his nest of downy blankets.

Jefferson pauses a moment, casting a quick glance over his shoulder before turning back to rummage through his sock drawer. “Nearly Nine now.”

Hamilton rubs fists into his sleep cake eyes. “Did my alarm not go off? Where’s my phone?” he asks groggily 

“It went off. But I put it on snooze because it was annoying me” The other man snatches it from the bedside table and tosses it to him. “- and you looked like you could use the sleep.”

He furrows his brows. “Don’t touch my stuff” Alexander replies slowly, gathering the device into his hands.

Jefferson merely shrugs, avoiding his gaze. “Whatever. I’m taking a shower.”

“Not before me you aren't” he begins to protests, but Jefferson waves his words away.

“I’ll be quick, besides, you don't have class until noon today. Waiting won’t kill you” 

And with that he disappears into the adjacent room, shutting the door behind him with a snap. A moment later Hamilton hears the hammering of water on the showers vinyl floor. He huffs, sinking deeper into the bed. 

He manages to occupy himself for a few restless moments with his phone, but onces he’s checked all his social media and emails there really isn’t much else left to do. He glowers at the closed bathroom door for a while, feeling the way the seconds slip past in his chest like fine sand though the biggest hourglass. Jefferson is wrong, the wait will kill him.

Hamilton flings back the covers, which is a mistake because even with the heat on the room is still unpleasantly chilly, then he swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. He hops into the first pair of boxers he can find strewn across the floor and shuffles towards the bathroom door. When he tries the handle he finds that its unlocked, one of Jefferson’s many bad habits Hamilton has noticed during his time here. One would think he’d get used to having someone in his apartment all the time and  would remember to lock it but he never does.

Steam swirls out in elegant rings of silver as Hamilton pushes his why inside. It's so much warmer in here, damp and muggy, the torrent of water pouring from the shower head reverberates off the plain walls and cheap tile floor. The silhouette of Jefferson pauses behind the distorted glass of the shower door.

“Ummm, occupied” he calls. Alexander merely  grunts, stiping out of his underwear just as quick as he donned them, then pulls open the shower door.

“Hey!” Jefferson squawks, flattening himself against the shower wall as the little immigrant squeezes in beside him. “The hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Hamilton rolls his eyes, stepping under the scalding stream of water. “Shut up, this is about the most innocent thing I could have come in here to do and it’s not like we haven’t seen each other naked before. I just wanted to get in here before you used up all the hot water.”

“I don’t use all the hot water” Jefferson retorts in a clipped voice. 

“Sure you don’t.” Alexander mutters. He draws his fingers through his hair, back and out of his face. “ Just shut up and let me wash my hair.”

Jefferson sighs, then turns so he’s facing the wall. Alexander does the same, so they stand back to back under the showerhead. 

Neither says anything for a long time, nor do they do much in the way of acknowledging the other’s presence as they lather up and rinse off. After a few minutes Jefferson mutters to switch and they maneuver around each other best they can in the small space, shuffling feet sloshing against the wet floor. 

“How’s John?” 

The question catches Hamilton off guard. 

“Why do you care?” he replies tersely, glancing at the taller man’s back out of the corner of his eye.

Jefferson shrugs. “He hasn’t been hanging all over you during rehearsals. I was just curious as to why that might be. Y’all are close, aren’t you? The whole partners in crime thing?”

Hamilton fidgets with his hair anxiously. John isn’t a subject he cares to discuss, especially with Jefferson. “He’s pissed at me, not that it’s any of your business.” he answers curtly

“Is it because of me?” he asks.

“Ya know, sleeping with the guy he hates might have a little something to do with it, yeah” he shoots back. A lull falls between them. Alexander nudges Jefferson out of the way so he can wash the suds from his hair. Standing in front of the taller man with his head tipped back under the shower head. “Why do you even care anyways?”

The Virginia's gaze roves over him a moment, and were it not for the water in his eyes Hamilton, would have said it was almost longing. Jefferson  reaches out to trace the tips of his fingers over one of the bruises low on Alexander’s hip. “Because he’s you’re friend”

“It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about me, I can fight my own battles, I don't’ need you getting involved in my personal life.” Alexander huffs, turning away from Jefferson once more.

“Am I not a part of your personal life?” the other man inquires, setting his hands tentatively on his waist. Warm and wet. Hamilton straightens his spine to suppress the shiver growing in his lower back.

“You’re my sex life and some of my professional life, unfortunately.” he replies

Jefferson hums, rolling Hamilton bare skin though his fingers. Alexander can feels the heat of him against his back, and for a moment the little immigrant  thinks that Jefferson is going to press him into the cold shower wall and fuck him senseless. The image of it in his mind brings the repressed shudder to fruition But Jefferson merely brushes back his hair and lays a chaste kiss to the nape of his neck before  falling away entirely. 

“I’m getting out.” Jefferson informs him, stepping out of the stall.

“Finally.” Hamilton grumbles back, massaging his conditioner into his hair.

From the other side of the glass Jefferson chuckles. “You act like I'm the one who came barging in here and disrupted your shower.” then “Oh, and I did a load of darks the other day so your jeans should be clean.”

“Alright, cool” Hamilton nods

The door falls shut behind Jefferson as he exits, leaving Alexander a bit disappointed. What can he say, he’s kind of insatiable and Jefferson’s hands light a fire in his chest.

He turns off the water a minute or two later, toweling off before pulling his boxers back on and stepping back into the bedroom. He prys open the top drawer of the dresser and pulls out jeans and a faded  t shirt and  dresses quickly. Then he digs his phone out of the mess of blankets on the bed and makes his way out of the room

Jefferson already has the stovetop going by the time he strolls into the kitchenette. Alexander maneuvers past him with grace and grabs a box of cereal from the cabinet and milk from the fridge. Jefferson grabs a bowl from the top shelve without missing a beat, setting on the table for Hamilton before returning his attention his sizzling french toast. 

He mummer out a quick ‘thanks’ before filling the bowl with milk. Jefferson clicks his tongue with disdain as Hamilton then dumps the cereal on top but Alexander ignores him. Contrary to what the virginian thinks, there is no wrong way to eat cercal. He snatches up his bowl and a spoon and takes his breakfast over to the couch. Jefferson joins him soon after, resting a warm plate heaping with bacon and toast on the coffee table. Alexander steals a few strips because they’re sitting there totally unguarded and at worst Jefferson will growl at him for pillaging some of his food. 

“What do you even do all day?” Hamilton asks suddenly, because he needs to break the silence. Filling the quiet with the sound of his own voice. “I know you don't have class but I don’t actually think you go anywhere all day. Don’t you have like, friends to hang out with? Because if I'm the only person you spend time with outside of class that really sad, I don’t even like you that much.”

Jefferson shrugs, flicking on the tiny tv in the corner. “James is home sick again this week. I’m probably just going to run lines all day.”

Alexander fixes the other man with an incredulous look, resting his spoon against the edge of his bowl. “You’re still running lines? Tomorrow is the last performance.”

“Which gives me two more chances to make an utter ass of myself.” Jefferson responses. “The better memorized I am, the less likely I am to fuck up.”

He sets down his plate and lumbers over to his desk, piled high with drooping stacks of books and papers and carefully extracts his battered script and a cheep looking notebook. 

Ever curious, Hamilton asks. “What’s that?”

“Hm?” he glances down at the notebook. Then he rolls his eyes, passing it easily to Alexander. “ Never understood why you’d deface your script like you do.” he mutters, returning to his previous seat on the sofa. “Isn’t all the little hand writing distracting and messy?”

Hamilton flicks open the notebook. Inside are rather lengthy, detail notes pertaining to the show. Blocking fills up ten whole pages and the rest are performance critiques. Jefferson has written them all down in here, neatly labeled and sorted. Seems that Jefferson’s air of arrogance is nothing more the a facade, Alexander should  have guessed. He plays apathetic but in reality, the Virginian has amasses information more comprehensive than Hamilton’s Econ notebook which baffles him. He never though Jefferson cared. 

“Hey-”

Alexander glances up, only to have a hefty stack of papers thrown at his chest. 

“Run lines with me. You’re eating my food, you mind was well make yourself useful.” Jefferson instructs

The little stage manager groans, sagging back against the arm of the couch with his head lolled back and legs wide and useless. This isn’t the attention he was hoping for.  

He hears Jefferson’s dismissive scoff. “Why are you whining? I thought you’d be thrilled. Isn’t this a wet dream of yours, watching me rehearse?”

Maybe once that had been true, not even a month ago he’s sure the thought of Jefferson actually writing in his blocking notes would have had him coming in his pants. Now it hardly matters. Why should Hamilton care anymore what Jefferson does, what any of them do. He’s always worked so hard for these shows, doing anything and everything he can to see that they bloom before the audience. But when he boils down his position to its fundamental roots he finds himself left with a bunch of odd jobs and pointless chores to keep him entertained and out of Washington’s way. He doesn’t design lights or mix music like Peggy, what she does is crucial to the performance. He doesn’t instruct, not really, his authority is nowhere near Washington’s, or even Lafayette’s when it comes to stage direction. At most he can squeak at the performers to look over their lines during their down time. He’s merely a cat herder, shuffling rowdy, tired college kids from one room to the other. No wonder he hadn’t been invited to that meeting. What could he have contributed that would have made an impact. At the end of the day he’s just following orders with no real say. It's no surprise that recognition of his involvement is represented by a little star beside his name amid a sea of other techies.

A weighty sigh passed his lips as he runs hands through his damp, stringy hair. “It’s not important anymore. Just another small triumph to be overlooked.”

“Melodramatic much?” Jefferson shoots back. “What’s biting your ass Hamilton?”

Simultaneously he wants to reply with ‘ _ everything’ _ and ‘ _ hopefully you’  _ but he settles with  _ “nothing”  _ and flips open the script with disinterest  instead. “Another glorious day in paradise” he rattles off dully.

Jefferson untucks his legs from behight him. “Easy to see it that way when you’re looking through the bottom of a bottle.”

They prattle off lines to each other for a few minutes but with every word Hamilton grows more aloof, mumbling and picking at the annoyingly bent corners of the page .Eventually he tosses the whole thing to the floor, earning himself an indignant squawk from his companion. 

“This is bullshit.” He sighs before Jefferson can get out a word of protest. “Can’t we doing something else?”

Jefferson tucks his arms loosely against his chest “And what exactly did you have in  mind?”

A lazy, lopsided smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. Finally, he’s getting somewhere. With unhurried movements Alexander slides easily across the couch and swings a leg across  the other man’s strong thighs. Jefferson’s hands instinctively fall to his waist. 

He breathes out a laugh, tilting his chin up to better take the little immigrant in. “I should have guessed.”

Two things happen at once. Jefferson’s unfairly long fingers settle on the waistband of Alexander’s jeans, thumbs glossing over the button idly for a moment before making to pop it open. At same time, Hamilton leans in to capture his mouth in a searing kiss, cruving one hand around his neck and gently threading the fingers of the other into his buoyant curls. Caught by surprise Jefferson gasps. He stops trying to pull down his zipper and instead clutches desperately to his hips, seating Alexander more securely in his lap. Hamilton pressed himself flush to his chest and rolls his hips downward, seeking out distraction just as much as friction

So odd how much things have changed over the past month or so. Theater used to be Hamilton’s  escape from the cruelty of reality, like a sand bank in a churning sea, it offered him respite for a short while. His other worries dissolved like seafoam from his mind while he worked, prepping mics, finding props, writing notes. He would come and distract himself with music and friends and forget the things that kept him up early into mornings. So when Jefferson had popped up in that auditorium chair with a name tag slapped to his chest the world may as well have ended. Alexander has always tried so hard to get away from this deplorable man because he irks him as much as he challenges his mind. And yet here he is, trying to drown himself in the skin of Jefferson’s neck, nose crushed against his pulse, mouthing as hard as he dares down the length of his throat. Jefferson is the best high he’s ever experienced and he’s the one Alexander seeks his refuge in now, his respite. He is mind numbing, it's in his dark brown eyes and his scorching skin that boils Hamilton from the center of his chest out to tips of his frostbitten fingers. Hands that are surprisingly soft and daring fingers that block the rest of the world from his senses.

And maybe he should be concerned with this fact, that he’s starting to find reprieve in a man who's been nothing but a plague on his life up until only a few weeks ago, someone he still fights with passionately. This arrangement hasn’t done much to change the dynamic of their Humanities class, because exuberant amounts of sex don’t change a person’s core moral beliefs, as much as Alexander would like to believe he could pound some sense into Jefferson. No, the stakes are far too high when the weapons they wield are words and Hamilton is too proud and too stubborn to allow his ideals to waver. But all that seem so inconsequential when he has his thighs wrapped tight around the other man’s head. In public, Jefferson keeps his usual arrogant stride, combating Alexander’s claims with that infuriating but commendable ease that he does. However, when the two of them stumble into urgent kisses in the hall outside his door he becomes far more pliable to Alexander’s desires, attentive even.

He’s the catilus of all of Hamilton’s grief. Hamilton should know better-he does know better then to stick around, but he’s never been know for making decisions for salvation, only self preservation. Jefferson is the reason his life is tearing itself in two and yet Alexander hesitates to pull himself free. He’s sure that he could, if he wanted to. Jefferson may be a heavy, all consuming mass at the center of the universe but he’s not inescapable, Hamilton could pull away before he’s ripped apart atom by atom. But there is pleasure in the way his sinews pull from the muscle and the pop and snap of the cartilage in his joints. There’s no better distraction than the way Jefferson prys is skin from his bones with his teeth. Its violent and that's the best part of it, but  Alexander doesn’t feel that he’s addicted to it. Then again, he's hasn’t gone long enough without blunt nails ripping trenches into his sides to know for sure. 

A few things he does know for sure. He knows that Jefferson’s lips on his stomach are warm like freshly laundered sheets. He knows the rhythm of his heart beat in those long minutes after he’s hit his high and can tap it on his knee with ease. He knows that the stubble on Jefferson’s chin makes jeans a near impossibility after the virginian has spent the night between his knees and that the deep red flush that spreads like a wildfire down his toned chest is intoxicating. 

So Hamilton doesn’t find it all that hard to submit to the sensation of Jefferson pulling him from his tented boxer briefs. He’s quick to reciprocate, tugging down the zipper  of the man’s dry clean only dress pants and slipping a hand past the waistband. He’s hot in Alexander's palm, working his way up to half mast. Hamilton helps him along with a few  gentle strokes as he pulls him all the way out and Jefferson mumbles out little appreciative sounds in response. Alexander smirks, drags his teeth along to underside of Jefferson’s  jaw and rubs slow circles into the tender flesh just below the head of his cock, drawing out glisting drops of pre come. Jefferson's broad hands shift on him, sliding from his waist to grip at his thighs to better hold him to his chest. 

The movement jostles Hamilton and their dicks slide along each other with a  spine tingling friction that has the immigrant biting down on his lower lip. He bucks  almost absentmindedly against him and again is rewarded that delightful sensation of throbbing skin on skin. Jefferson’s chest empties like an opened canister of compressed oxygen, air hissing between his teeth as he slumps further into the couch cushions, allowing Alexander more leverage. He raises himself up on his knees then drops right back down, this time time in a position where their aching cocks are flush and Jefferson moans softly on his next exhalation. Hamilton slips hands under the other man’s shirt, easing it off of him, exposing his strong chest.

For a while he grinds against Jefferson, simply enjoying the sensation and the escapism it allows him, but the friction isn't enough to scratch the itch that’s been lingering in the back of his skull since he stepped into the shower this morning. Hamilton grips both their flushed cock at their bases, giving an experimental squeeze before stroking all the way up.

He groans deep in his chest, Jefferson mutters  _ ‘shit’ _ under his breath then rocks up into the broken ring of his fingers. Hamilton pumps them again, more enthusiastically this time but the lack of any kind of lubrication makes the pull rough and his hands are just too small to wrap all the way around them both. He growls, thrusting up shakily. They’re not getting anywhere like this

“Hey” gingerly he coaxes Jefferson’s head up from where it’s fallen to his shoulder, using his unoccupied hand to guide his gaze upward. Jefferson gives him a slightly glassy stare, lips parted as he huffs with little jolts of pleasure. Once he has his attention, Alexander trails his hand down Jefferson’s shoulder, down his arm, and takes his hand gently in his own. He helps him wrap his longer, warmer fingers around their lengths and sighs contently as the other man brushes the pad of his thumb along the side of his shaft. Jefferson’s grip is firm and large, much better, Hamilton bucks up into the heat of his fingers. Jefferson moans appericaticaly, pumping around them with Alexander’s fingers still hovering on his wrist. 

The little immigrant leans forward, snagging Jefferson’s plush, wonderful lower lip between his teeth and nips at it gently. The taller man practically mewls, a high, needy whine escaping his lips. His breath is hot and ragged against Hamilton’s cheeks, fingers curling and squeezing and touch all around them, he can feel the way the veins pulse along his shaft. Alexander can tell, Jefferson is as far along as he is, his thighs starting to tremble under the weight of the pleasure. Alexander pulls himself from Jefferson’s excitable mouth, resting fully against his thighs with his arms draped lazily around his shoulders as Jefferson tugs them both closer to the edge.

Its tempting to close his eyes and revel in the nerve melting sensation that is quickly becoming too much, but the incentive to watch Jefferson’s face while he falls apart under his own clever fingers is far greater. With heavy eyes and shallow breaths that make his chest heave, Alexander indulges himself on the breathtaking scene before him. Of Jefferson, with his proud eyes fluttering with the desire to remain open and the regal column of his neck exposed and elongated as he tips his chin and presses his head into the back of the sofa. His shoulders shake, his chest, rising and falling rapidly with each breath he forces down, hot and flushed. Hamilton drops one hand from around his neck to trace senseless shapes over it, letting his curious fingers wander of their own accord. They flit across an exposed nipple and Jefferson whimpers, back bowing as he  leans into the touch.

The edging is driving Alexander mad, the edges of his vision dark, giving him tunnel vision as he moans and sighs softly under his breath. Hamilton plants his hands firmly on the other man’s shoulders and starts to really thrust in time with Jefferson’s hand, shoving his cock up though his fingers quick and rough, bouncing on his  calfs for better leverage.

“Oh fuck fuck  _ fuuck _ ” Jefferson babbles, legs tense and trembling below him. His so close to the breaking point now. The little sliver of his dark brown eyes peeking from between his lashes swirl with stars.

Alexander observes him as he thrusts again and again. How beads of sweat roll down his flushed cheeks. Listening for the way his breath now stutters in his chest. He doesn’t last much longer before he comes crumbling down like a jenga tower, sucking in a sharp breath as he spills thick, milking strands all over himself and Alexander.  

“ _ Aaa _ \- alex” he whimpers coating his fingers and his stomach with the release. 

Though his high he continues to pump his slackening fist and Hamilton continues to bump and grind against him. His blunt fingernails cut crescent moons into the tops of his broad shoulders.

One- two -three- _ four _ thrusts more and Hamilton feels the rubber band in his lower belly finally snap.

A choked cry escapes him. Breathless pleasure smothering the sounds in his throat. Thick, translucent liquid spills from him, covering Jefferson’s already messy stomach. With a hiss, Hamilton drops his sweat slicked forehead to Jefferson’s  shoulder and meekly seeks to extent his high with half hearted little thrusts against the other man’s softening cock. 

“Jeffer _ soooooon _ ” he groans weakly, the words leaving his lips without permission.

After a still moment where both men work to collect their wet breath, Hamilton leans away, sitting back on Jefferson’s thighs with a little huff. The virginian is staring at him, an odd look in his cloudy eyes. 

“What?” he huffs, drawing his brows together.

A beat, then Jefferson  shakes his head and drops his gaze to Alexander’s right shoulder. “Nothing”

“If you say so” he mutters back,  combing his fingers through his damp hair, pulling it back from his sweaty neck. 

They’re both a mess now, still panting, flaccid cocks resting uselessly against their unzipped jeans. Jefferson has a congealing cocktail of both of them on his stomach and fingers and Alexander’s sure he got some on his shirt. 

He sighs, shimming out of Jefferson’s lap so he can shove his dick back in his pants. “I’m gonna go change.” he gives the other man a quick once over, taking in his ruffled curls and pitiable state of undress. “You probably want to clean yourself up.” he adds as he makes for the bedroom.    
  


 

Class can’t seem to hold his interest today. Hamilton taps his pen sporadically against the table top all lecture, legs jogging under the desk with anticipation to get to the theater. He shoves everything haphazardly into his bag once his professor releases them and nearly jogs the block and a half to the playhouse. His thursday class always runs later which has never been an issue before, but when he gets inside and sets his bag on a counter top he finds, much to his dismay, most of the work is done. Its disheartening to say the least. Usually when he arrives at the theater on thursdays lots of people are milling around, some overeager actors may even be in costume already, but his tech crew tends to hover, awaiting his direction. So he’s shocked when he finds props all pulled out and neatly organised, mic packs already prepped and waiting in rows, and his head set sitting innocently on the work table. His heart sinks down to his toes. His presence really isn’t necessary, is it.

It's a crushing blow to his already crumbling ego, another thousand pound slab weighing down his shoulders. Stomach sour and heart exhausted, he trudged his way glumly down the dressing room. At least there’s one person he knows that will need his help.

The dressing room is rather sparsely populated when he turns the corner into the foul smelling space and, as expected, Jefferson waits dutifully for him. He’s set himself up in a chair in the corner behind a row of coat racks, make up laid out on the countertop and smirking teasingly over at Hamilton.

The little stage manager rolls his eyes, corners of his lips attempting to pull up in a grin despite the less than  stellar feeling in his chest. What an asshole Jefferson is.

He takes up the chair opposite him, cocking a brow questioningly as he grabs the compact and cosmetic sponge. “So you can pull it all out but you still can’t do your own make up?” he ask, trying to hid his amusement in highlighting this revelation. 

Jefferson merely widens his grin, shrugging and tossing his hair back. “I haven’t the faintest idea where to start.”  he mutters back

To this Alexander scoffs. “I’ve been show you how to do this for months, you think you would have picked up on something by now.”

“You coddle me.” he replies simply, leaning forward a bit his his chair so his face is more easily accessible. “How was I to learn if you never gave me a chance to try?” he tuts gently. “Such a control freak.”

“Or maybe you’re just an idiot.” Hamilton supplies. Carefully he starts to apply the foundation.

Jefferson hums softly through his nose. “But I’m your idiot, aren't I?”

Hamilton's scoffs. “Don’t push it.”

Quite falls between them, which only grows worse with every new person that trickles out of the room, until it’s just the two of them. The silence is even more unbearable than usual, the empty, wordless void causing Alexander’s mind to whirl to fill it. More slimy thoughts of self doubt.

When had this become his life?

When did he becomes so useless and replaceable? Somehow, he’s become everything Jefferson had made him out to be. A babysitter, a personal assistant with no real gravity on the outcome of the show. He really is just expendable, that much seems clear now. The more he dwells on it, the thicker the cement in his chest becomes, hardening his lungs, slowly suffocating him.

“Your hands are always so cold.” Jefferson mutters suddenly. He cradles Hamilton’s hands in his own, dragging them away from his face.

Hamilton huffs, annoyed but grateful for the distraction. The warmth of Jefferson’s hands make his fingers tingle.

He tries to blow some loose hair from his face. “You weren’t complaining about them this morning.” 

Jefferson makes a soft, affirmative little noise in the back of his throat. “Well I was doing a pretty good job of keeping them warm this morning.” he teases. Then the man has the gaul to lay a wicked little kiss to the tops of his knuckles.

Hamilton quickly pulls free of his grip, refusing to acknowledge the way the tops of his ear burn pink. “Fuck off asshole, I was doing all the work.” 

An airy chuckle from his companion.

Alexander clenches his jaw tight, snatching up the eyeliner from the counter with one hand, and fastening his grip around Jefferson’s chin with the other. He drags him close, something dangerous flashes in the other man’s eyes.

“Pay attention this time, because tomorrow I’m done holding your hand.” he warns. But like every other time he’s threaten to leave Jefferson on his own the words are weak and hollow and Jefferson knows it.

He hums gently, letting his eyelids flutter shut. “I’m sure.”

Alexander rolls the eye liner across Jefferson’s lashline quickly. As he works, he feels the virginian lay a hand over his knee, which prompts him to roll his eyes. When Alexander is done he sets the pencil back down on the counter and leans out of Jefferson’s personal space, only for his hand to linger.

“You’re all set” he informs him

Jefferson smiles a lazy smile, flicking his eyes open to stare at Hamilton with heavy, half lidded gaze. “How this theater could function without you, I have no idea”

Alexander scoffs at the offhandedly patronizing comment, lungs filling up with sludge once more. “They seem to manager just fine without me” he replies curtly.

The taller man makes a dismissive clicking sound with his tongue. The hand he laid on his knee creeping slowly up his thigh. “Whatever”

The hand slides over the top his leg with ease, eventually seating itself in the crock of Hamilton’s hip, in the crease between his pelves and the leg. And then Jefferson leans forward and plants and lingering kiss to Hamilton’s  lips. Alexander sighs into the familiarity of it, of the unhurried rhythm of Jefferson’s mouth moving against his. His fingers itch to tangle in the other man’s shirt front, to drag him forward and pull them flush. That’s when he pushes back by a sudden jolt of wrongness in his chest. The sudden intimacy of the action sets Hamilton on edge once more

He leans as far back in his chair as can, as far away from a  slightly disgruntled Jefferson as he can. “Come on, it's the second to last night. I don’t have time for a quicky, save it for after the show.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes languidly, thumb rubbing slow circles into Hamilton’s leg. “Just a kiss for good luck then?” he asks sweetly. He leans in again with what seems like every intention of recapturing Alexander’s lips, but at the last second the little immigrant turns his head, causing the kiss to fall to the corner of his mouth.

His heart is thundering in his chest and in his ears as Alexander plants his feet firmly on the floor and he shoves himself back, out of Jefferson’s grasp. The virginian looks perturbed, a deep furrow forming between his eyebrows

“Stop that.” Alexander says firmly, wishing that his stomach would stop writhing like it is, twisting and folding his insides into an anxious paper crane.    
Jefferson tips his head to the side. “Stop what?”

“Stop being- weird.” he stumbles on his words, because really, how else can he described how oddly touchy feely the other man has become.

It’s making Hamilton uncomfortable. He doesn’t dislike it, he thinks anyway,  which may be the worst realization he could have come to.  He’s not sure. The fluffy, tingling feeling in his chest would seem to speak volumes to it but mostly he’s just confused. Why doesn't he hate it. Shouldn’t he hate it? He loathes Jefferson, and yet the almost tender moment makes his knees wobble benight him as he jumps to his feet and that makes him sick to his stomach. His thoughts blurs together. He has to get some space.

Hamilton hurriedly makes for the exit, ignoring Jefferson’s questions as he makes his escape. 

It's just too much to deal with right now.

He rushes up the stairs. He’s pretty fast, surely he can outrun the sudden intensity of the situation. If Jefferson could just go back to being cruel to him, maybe that would  kill whatever winged pests that have decided to infest his lungs, building nest between his ribs. Whatever, if he ignores the horrible rustling feeling it have to go away eventually.

He’s so caught up in his frantic thoughts that he makes no attempt to swerve out of the way and stumbles headlong into the person loitering at the top of the steps. The person just so happens to be Burr. Hamilton tenses farther, he hasn't spoken much to Burr over these last three weeks. Has it really been almost a month since he’s lingering in his dorm?

Burr blinks, like he’s shocked that he’s here.

‘He’s probably surprised that I'm still here even though all the work is done.’ Alexander thinks bitterly, taking a gerous step back from his once close friend

Bur cocks his head to the side. “Hello Alexander.” he greets awkwardly, shuffling his feet ever so slightly. “Did you see what the crew did?”

“Yeah.” Hamilton replies gloomily, dropping his head between his shoulders. He really doesn’t need to hear Burr boast about his promise as a stage manager right now.

The other man hum in affirmation. “Yes, they were so proud of themselves. They really wanted to impress you and I think they did a fantastic job.”

Alexander peers up at him through the curtain of his hair “What are you talking about?”

“Your crew. They know that you always run late on Thursdays so they all pitched in and lended a hand with the setup, trying to take a little off your plate and show so appreciation.”

“Appreciation for what?” Alexander  mumbles. What could he  do that anyone would appreciate?

Burr fixes him with a confused and yet somehow still stern look. “For being such a diligent and devoted stage manager.” when Hamilton doesn’t interject he presses forward. “They look up to you Alexander, they admire all the hard work you do. They wanted to show you what they’ve learned.”

The little stage manager presses his lips into a firm line, biting down on the them. He never considered that. 

“Listen, Alex-” Burr begins. “I must admit, I don’t feel like I’ve been a very good friend to you these past couple of weeks and I want to apologize for that. It’s not my place to dedicate your actions but sometimes i feel as though you need to hear things from different perspective. You always act so rashly and I’m concerned that you’re going to get yourself hurt. I’m not in position to reproach you, you are an adult but you're also my friend and I can't help but worry about you.”

Alexander drops his gaze to his shoes once more, neck flushing scarlet. Now he feels like a massive asshole for snapping like he did. Burr was just looking out for him. Not everything is a personal attack.

Burr then sighs. “But I can see now my warning was unnecessary.” He continues, placing tentative hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. “He’s been a good influence on you.”

“No he hasn’t” he shoots back dumbly. Burr looks surprised, Alexander sighs. “Thank you though, for, ya know, worrying about me. Someone has to, I certainly don't.”

“We all care about you Alexander.” Burr says firmly. “Laurens won’t admit it, but he’s been mopping ever since you moved out. It wouldn’t hurt to have a conversation with him, I think the two of you need to talk out all this unpleasantness.”

Hamilton shoots him a weak smile. “Damn you and your level head reason.”

He merely shrugs. “Someone has to get you to behave like adults.”

Alexander chuckles arily under his breath but the sound is drowned out but an ear splitting, static screen and a couple of loud, mechanical pops. Instinctively he flinches at the intuitive noise.

“What was that?” Burr asks

“No clue” Hamilton replies before he realizes that Burr’s not talking to him, but rather, to his head set.

Another awful burst of static. Alexander jogs over to the edge of the stage to see who’s mic is making that god awful sound. To his horror he sees that it's Eliza’s lob. It can’t get much worse than that. He rushes back over to Burr and sweeps the headset from his head, earning himself a disgruntled grunt that he pays no mind.

“What’s going on Pegs.” he asks on a hurried breath.

“I don’t know, Lizzy’s mic is freaking out”  Peg answers. There’s a slightly panicked edge in her voice that causes festering pit of anxiety to build up behind Hamilton's lungs. “ Everything looks fine. Maybe if I-” speakers wail in angry protest of whatever it is she’s down and Peggy sighs shakily into his ear. “Oh fuck me.”

“Can you fix it?” he presses. They can not have their lead actress’s mic acting up. Not today, not now.

“Maybe.” she replies. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with it, it’s just- wait, hang on.” a few more absolutely horrible pops, static crackles though the sound system like lighting, then silence.

He, Burr and Peggy breath out a sigh of relief in tandem. “I think I fixed it. Have her try now.”

“Try again” Alexander yells over to the stage.

“Ummm,,,” Eliza’s sweet, timid voice pings though the speakers. “Check check, one two. Is everything alright?”

With a groan, Hamilton sweeps a hand roughy down his face. “It’s working alright now?”

“Yeah, there was loose wire.” Peggy tells him.

“Did you fix it?” they can’t have something like that happen again, especially not during the performance. 

“I shoved it back so I hope that works. I’ll keep an eye on it though.”

Another, exhausted sigh. Hamilton’s not sure how much more stress he can handle tonight. “Alright, let me know if you need me to sit up there and hold it or something.”

Peggy laughs. “Hammy you have more important things to worry about.”

“I’m sure there are others far more capable of handling them then me.” he grouces.

She huffs. “That’s some bullshit if I’ve ever heard it. You just focus on making this our most kick ass performance and leave the audio troubleshooting to me.”

After she says this the line goes silent. Alexander breathes out a tired breath and hands Burr his headset back to him and goes to do  the final prep work before curtains in an hour. He dons his own headset, lectures the ushers on proper behavior and avoids Jefferson. The virginian hovers constantly at the corner of his vision as though he is a phantom, looking lost. Alexander ignores him and the way he’s making his stomach twist. He needs space right now, Jefferson seems to sense this and doesn’t engage him in conversation. They’re getting too familiar with each other, time apart with do them well, and hopefully it’ll starve the angry moths in Hamilton’s lungs. When the lights go down and seven thirty Hamilton prattles off a quick message to the audience about some rules and regulations from behind the curtain and then they’re off. 

The show runs smoothly. Hamilton tries, and fails miserably it not let his gaze linger on Jefferson.

 

It’d be a considerably bad idea for him to go home with Jefferson tonight in light of all this sudden weirdness. Some time apart would benefit them both, at least that what Alexander tells himself. They’ve grown to comfortable with the others presence and that familiarity is what’s giving way for the uncomfortable intimacy. Kissing like that is too tender for them. If Jefferson what's to shove his tongue down that back of his throat Hamilton certainly isn’t going to stop him, but he draws a hard line at the whole bullshit, ‘just cause’ kind of contact the other man has been pushing. Alexander doesn’t crave his touch, not unless it’s pulling orgams after mind melft orgams from him. He does need the tender contact.   
It's still just sex, he reminds himself. Mindless, hate fueled fucking. And, alright, maybe he’s been pushing things dangerously close to that invisible line of what he considers acceptable or not by spending the night as much as he does. But when Hamilton wakes up half curled against Jefferson broad back that’s because he was seeking out external heat, not because he revels in the comfort of his body on his. Because he doesn’t. Revel in it, that is. Maybe he’s sending mixed messages with stunts like that but Jefferson should know better, he should know that the contact is meaningless. Hamilton has made his boundaries and regulations for this thing their doing very clear. If Jefferson can’t understand that then some space will be good for them. Alexander needs to put that distance between them again, lock himself behind a meter of frozen ice before one of them does something irreversible stupid and they have no choice but to end this little game. Hamilton doesn’t want this to end, not yet anyway. If he just ignores all this unpleasantness, it's like things are still uncomplicated and he can continue to have a quiet place to work and a good lay every so often. That’s enough.

A sudden pop of static makes the little immigrant jump. He un glues his eyes from the corner of his well worn script to gaze at the stage with wide eyed horror. Eliza is in the middle of  her pre intermission solo and her mic chooses that exact moment to start losing its godforsaken mind once more. Hamilton’s knuckles whiten on the edge of his stool as the crackling drowns out the orchestra, his blood burning icy cold in his veins. Vaguely he registers Peggy swearing in his ears as she tries frantically to fix the issue, but whatever she’s doing is only causing the speakers to howl more violently. Eliza pushes though best she can, holding firm to her character even though the sound system is crumbling down around her and Alexander can hear the murmur of discomfort that sweeps though the audience.

“Unplug her mic!” he whisper-shouts into his headset, heart hammering unevenly in his chest. 

“Right-” Peggy stutters back. The speakers pop, then fall silent.

Eliza, that beautiful, brilliant girl, catches on quick to what's happened and makes up for the lack of voice magnification by singing louder, projecting her voice as far as it’ll go. It’s not ideal, she has a naturally soft, gentle voice but she makes do, belting out the notes with a new hint of determination in the melody. Alexander sags back against his seat as she finishes, shaking slightly. 

But now isn't the time to stand there, slack jawed and useless.

The curitnes sweep shut to a flurry of eager applause. Once Eliza steps off stage Hamilton grabs her arm gently and he escorts her swiftly up the catwalk stairs to the lighting booth. Peggy is fiddling frantically with the sound board, a frayed wire dangling from her left hand.

“What happend?” Alexander asks her tensely. His fingers tremble around Eliza’s wrist. She pats his shoulder, soothing fingers down his arm in a motherly way

Peggy shakes her head, brows furrowed tighter over he brown then he’s ever seen them. “The cable won’t stay it, it keeps coming loose and I don’t have permanent fix for it right now. I don’t think we should use it anymore.” she glances up at Hamilton, looking frazzled. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright Peggy.” Eliza sooths, always so quick to put others before herself when necessary. “What else is there we could do?”

“Nothing” Alexander interjects numbly. They only have so many channels on this old sound board. If one of them isn’t working then there’s nothing them can do. Setting her up with a new mic won't fix the fried wires. “You’re just going to have to go the rest of the show without a mic.”   
“No she won’t” a familiar, firm voice tells him. He tries to see Anglica striding briskly into the booth, Burr hot on her heels. The eldest sister strides right up to Alexander and says. “Give her my mic.”

“Angie I couldn’t possibly-” Eliza pleads, but her sister ignores her. 

“Give her my mic, she’s the lead, she needs it more then me.”

Hamilton stares at her, bewildered by her demand. “You still have a huge song coming up in act two.” he argues.    
“And Eliza has a dozen more and I’m more than loud enough on my own”. Angelica fixes him with a steely look. she’s still upset with everything that transpired between him and her sister. “It’s not about me, this is her show. She takes priority, above  _ everything  _ else.”

He blinks at her firm proclamation, then glances over at Burr. The man shrugs, no input to give on the situation. So Hamilton admits defeat with a heavy sigh. 

“You’re right” he mutters. “Turn around so I can switch them.”

With trembling fingers, Hamilton switches the mics, slipping Angelica’s in the pouch in the back of Eliza’s dress and tapping her up quickly. With the time they have left they run an impromptu mic check. Laf shows up halfway through it, sent  but Washington to see what was going on. Thankful everything works, there’s no static or awful pops on this channel, but Hamilton knows that the damage has already been done. With five minutes left they all slink back to their places. Alexander receives a kiss on the top of the head from Laf, and a firm hug and promise to stay after and try to fix the sound board from Peggy as they part ways. It’s not nearly enough to calm him however and as he stands back stage with his binder clutched in his hands, he finds himself stupidly wishing that someone would come over and sooth him. No one does.

Things are surprisingly smooth after that debacle is dealt with. The new mic works beautiful and Angelica has more than enough breath support to send her voice to the back of the theater without the added assistance. After bows Alexander carefully collects all the mics form the actors, walking between them with a bucket for them to dump them in. He takes Jefferson’s with an awkward, tight lipped grimace before slinking away. He then takes the mics up to the lighting booth. Peggy and Lafayette are already in there when he arrives, the two to them carefully inspecting the little wire that caused them all such grief. Hamilton sets the bucket down and joins them by the board.    
“What’s wrong with it?” he asks. His voice is faint. He’s too drained to sound boisterous right now.    
Lafayette shrugs. “It is old.” he says plainly

Hamilton nods. “Is there anyway to fix it?”

“We can try” Peggy replies, sitting herself down in her swivel chair. “Let’s see what we can do.”

So while Laf untangles mic cords and tucks the battery packs neatly into their cases, Alexander and Peggy fiddle with the broken wire.

Laf is right, the wire is just - old. The rubber coating around it is worn and peeling, frayed little wires peek out from holes in the cover. Peggy does her best to lay them flat, it takes almost an hour. Hamilton doesn’t care. He just needs this working by tomorrow. So he doesn’t mind holding tools and bending cords, unplugging and replugging the wire over and over again as the night drags on. 

Peggy wraps some electrical tape at the wires base and hands it back to Alexander. By this point Laf has wandered over them and he’s got his head resting gently on her arm. “Try it now.” she instructs Hamilton wearily. 

The little stage manager does as he’s told, plugging the cord in for what feels like the millionth time. Still it gets a soft, static-y pop. Peggy groans, letting her head fall back onto her boyfriend’s. “That’s it. There’s nothing more I can do. I’m gonna have to go buy some replacement stuff tomorrow and hope that it’ll work.”

“Why can’t you do it now?” Alexander asks. He hates the thought of having to leave this issue unresolved, it’ll keep him up all night.

The younger schyler sister gives him a sleepy look. “Hammy, it's late. Even if there was a store open I don have the mental capacity to work on this anymore tonight.”

Ever stubborn, Hamilton furrows his brows. “Maybe if I try it again.” he mutters. And he does just that, and again, the system crackles with disdain.    
“Alex, there’s no use, it’s busted.” she protests. 

He grunts and tries again.

“She’s right, mon petit lion, there is nothing left for us to do tonight. Thomas tell ‘im”

“You know you really ought to listen to your friends, right?”

Hamilton stiffens at the sound of his deep, chastising voice, shoving the cord back into the socket because, even though he’s done nothing new to it, maybe this time it’ll work.

A tired huff. Alexander hears shuffling feet. Then there’s  a hand on his upper arm, warm and unsettlingly familiar. 

“Hamilton come on, let’s go.”

He grunts. “It’s not fixed yet.”

“Tomorrow.” Jefferson hums, tugging at his sleeve in earnest. 

And Alexander's treacherous body has the audacity to fold. With a whine not unlike a young child might give at bedtime, he allows himself to be hauled from the floor. Up and directly against Jefferson’s front.

“Whatever” he mumbles, pushing his forehead back against his companion's chest.

“Get some sleep Alex.” Peggy tells him sleepy.

He nods. “Night guys.”

And with that, Jefferson wheels him out of the booth, leading them along the creaking catwalks with Alexander tucked against his side. He’s got an arm thrown around his shoulders, holding him close. Hamilton struggles weakly in his grasp until the other man huffs, dropping his hand to the small of his back instead. They trapes out to the parking lot. Jefferson opens the passenger side door for him and Hamilton collapses inside, sure to buckle up his seat belt. 

The drive is long and quite. Some airy, pointless pop song drones under the whir of the tires as they speed down the highway. Alexander stares dully out the window as they drive. At one point, Jefferson lays a careful hand over his knee and Hamilton doesn’t shake him off.  He’s too tired to care about distance right now. He lets the virginian rubs slow circles into his leg.

When they arrive at the apartment it’s nearly three in the morning. Jefferson guilds him gently to the bedroom, a familiar enough action. Once past the threshold Alexsander starts to strip. He shimmies out of his jeans in what he’s sure is a horribly unattractive display, what with all the stumbling he does, kicking out of his shoes and peeling off his socks as he goes. His hoodie, then his shirt, one after the other they land in a heap on the floor. Clad in only his boxer briefs now, Hamilton clambers onto the bed, waiting for Jefferson  to drop down beside him. The taller man follows his lead, stripping down to his underwear before joining him on the mattress. 

Immediately Alexander crawls into his lap, wrapping arms lazily around his shoulders, and connects their mouths with unmistakable ease. Jefferson sighs against his lips, tilting his head, deepening the kiss. Arms rest loosely across  Hamilton’s hips, fingers trace a senseless path over his skin, careful and curious. Almost like Thomas is searching from a weak point, mapping the creasing is his back like his navigating  a maze, seeking out an entrance. Hamilton melts into his chest, lets the tension drop for his thighs as they frame the other man’s waist and sinks deeper into his hold. It’s cold outside, there’s frost on the windows, but Jefferson is as warm as the vivid red light spilling through it from the street below.

They part, connected at the bridge of the nose. Jefferson breathes shakily over his lips, hot, wet air on his mouth. Alexander flicks his tongue over his upper lip and then they’re crashing into each other once more. Dark, ominous wave betting against a stony shoreline, Alexander feels himself start to erode always, turning to sand in Jefferson’s hands. This something new. All the movements are there, the stuttering, shallow breathing, the fingers fisting in hair, the feeble roll of eager hips, but they’re all slowed to half the speed.

Thomas groans into the corner of his mouth, twisting his arms tight around Hamilton’s waist as he starts to sink into the pillows. Alexander goes with him, laying a few, quick kisses to his jaw and throat. Soon Thomas is laying flat on his back, Hamilton splayed over his chest, their legs tangled together. Alexander rises and falls with the gentle rhythm of Jefferson’s chest. He untangles his arms from Jefferson’s neck, trailing his fingers up into his hair. That's when Jefferson loops his arms around his back instead, trapping his arms against his sides by pinning his elbows to his chest. Hamilton grunts. He can’t drag the palms of his hands along Jefferson’s stomach like this, and the new position has decreased his leverage, making it hard to get in a good thrust. Jefferson doesn’t seem to mind, in fact, he hums deeply against his lips, sinking further into the blankets, and squeezing Hamilton closer to his front. There’s nothing Alexander  can do, Thomas is bigger then him, boarder chest, longer arms. All Alexander can do is dance his fingertips down the side of his cheeks and tap  them on his jawline as they kiss each other dumb, deaf and blind. 

All the while Alexander waits for things to shift. Waits for Jefferson to take some pity on him, roll him over, spread his legs and press him breathlessly into the mattress. He’s to drained to do much more then let Thomas ride him tonight. The shift never comes however. Jefferson’s hands never trailed down his sides, he doesn’t grab handful of his ass to press their hips together roughly. They just kiss. Occasionally the bigger man will trail his lips along his  jaw, press warm, full kisses to the sides of his cheeks, or the underside of his chin. It’s oddly nice. Hamilton hates taking his time. He goes at sex like he goes at everything, fast and enthusiastically. The fleeting touches he imparts are better suited for a hundred meter dash, but Thomas kisses him like it's a fucking marathon. Unfortunately, Alexander’s not much of a long distance runner. 

He dreams of blankets fresh out of the dryer and long fingers entwined in his hair that night.

 


	10. Final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the last day of the show, and Alexander finds himself a little more then overwhelmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAA!  
> Okay last chapter here we go! Thank you all for sticking with me thorough my longest fic ever, I really appreciate all of Y'all's love and support! seriously, thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos and all that jazz, you guys rock. HUGE thanks to Ham-for-Ham and Kyller-Biis for taking the time to beta read this, I love you both  
> Alright, as always I love to hear from you guys so leave comments or hmu on tumblr. OXOXOXO

 

Consciousness comes slow to him the next morning. Like someone going around and flicking on every light in their house, Alexander starts to pick up on his surroundings one at a time.  First he notes how warm he is, a warm all over kind of warm that shields his body from the cold air biting at his nose. He buries the tip of it into the blankets drawn up around his shoulders. There’s a firm chest curled around his back, Thomas’ searing skin pressed flush against his own. The other man has his arms  lock tight around his middle, hands  rubbing slow, deliberate circles into his stomach. His face is buried in Hamilton’s hair, he’s got his lips against his ear and he’s breathing  _ hot air directly into his ear cannal jesusfuckingchrist.  _ It's a low, droning rumble tainted with a southern lilt, whistling unpleasantly on his ear drum. Instinctively, Alexander’s  shoulder jerks up at the foreign feeling invading his head and he grunts.

“Stop breathing in my ear, asshole.” he mumbles sleepily into his pillow.

Jefferson chuckles quietly into the nape of his neck. Hamilton huffs and curls in tighter on himself, taking fistfulls of blankets, drawng them up to his chin. He’s just about to drift off once more when there’s a sudden, horrible howling in his ear. Hot air moving so harshly against the inside of his head that makes him shudder.  His whole body jerks away from the source of the impromptu wind.

“Fuck you.” he growls.

Thomas laughs again, pulling him closer with the arms around his middle, fingers still stroking his hips in a soothing manner. 

And it would be so easy to fall back asleep like this, in fact, Alexander almost does. He’s tempted to pull the sheets up to his ears, close his eyes, and settle back into this comforting embrace, but then he remembers that it's Thomas’ arms around his waist. It’s Thomas’ hand kneading his skin gently, his body press against Hamilton’s back, laying together in his bed, in his apartment. 

He realizes that he has clothes in the top two drawers of Thomas’ dresser, realizes that his tooth brush is in the bathroom and his phone charger plugged into the wall right beside his bedmate’s. He realizes that his favorite cereal is tucked away on a shelf in the kitchen, that his favorite coffee mug is sitting in the drying rack by the sink and that there’s a week's worth of Monsters in the fridge that he didn't buy for himself. Alexander realizes that he knows things about Thomas that he didn’t know before. That he has some sort of social anxiety, that his southern drawl is more prominent when he’s tired, worried or stressed, that he likes to cook and plays the violin.  He realizes that things have gotten intimate between the two of them and, most terrifying of all, Hamilton realizes that, in spite of it all, he still wants to curl back up and fall asleep.

His hummingbird heart beats frantically against the cage of his ribs, looking for a way out. He wriggles free of  _ Jefferson's _ grasp, causing  _ Jefferson _ to grunt indignantly as he throws back the blankets.

“Alexander, it’s too early. Come back to bed.” Jefferson mumbles, reaching for him half heartedly as Alexander stubbles to his feet. 

“I'm leaving” he blurts out, breathless, and searching for his pants.

It’s very quiet for a moment, then.

“Oh.” Jefferson breathes out the sound. Suddenly he doesn't sound quite so asleep. “Oh, umm, yeah- no yeah, um,” his voice is a little breathless too, almost faint “ _ cool _ .”

Alexander squeezes his eyes shut tight as he hikes up his jeans up over his ass. There’s a voice in his head screaming NO, telling him to stop before he makes this any worse, to undo his zipper and clamber back into bed. Instead he snags his shirt from the floor and slips it on over his head.

“Did- you want some clean clothes before you,,, go?” Jefferson probes, voice measured

“No. No I’m gonna-” Alexander risks a glance at the virginian over his shoulder. He’s propped himself up on his elbows on the bed, blankets around his middle, watching Alexander with sad eyes. Hamilton swallow. “I’m-” he’s what? Sorry? What could he possible say here that would fix this situation? “I just gotta go.” he mutters lamely.

Jefferson nods, casting his forlorn gaze down to the corner of his big bed. “Yeah” he rakes fingers nervously through his hair. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you tonight?”

Hamilton nods vigorously as he searches for his shoes and socks and anything else of his left on the floor. “Umhm! Yeah, yeah no yup. Yup, will definitely see you later.” 

And then he’s stumbling out of the room, down the hall, into the living room. He grabs his laptop back from under Jefferson’s desk, and he runs.

  
  


It’s not Lafayette that opens the door for him, but Peggy, wearing one of Laf’s sweaters. It’s one he decorated for the homecoming game that he dragged Hamilton , Herc and Laurens to their freshman year and it's awkwardly big on her, the hem swallowing up her knees. Her hair is a wild, tangled mass of uncontrollable  caramel locks fanned out around her head like a particularly thick patch of cumulus clouds at the peak of a mountain. Her expression  of pissed off exhaustion immediately melts away into one of confused concern when she sees him, however. Leaning hard against the door frame of Laf’s apartment at  five in the morning, in the same clothes as yesterday. He feels like the mess he must look like, frizzy, greasy hair, grungy clothes, and his heart still beating bruises into his ribs as it tries to escape the shaky sensation in his chest. 

“Hey Pegs” he greets her with a timid half smile. She quickly ushers him inside

Sitting on the couch twenty minutes later, with an empty box of delivery pastries from some obscure french bakery (apparently Laf knows the owners) Peggy gently cards  fingers through his hair while his feet rest in Laf’s lap so the frenchman can paint his toes a pearly rose color. He leans back hard against Peggy’s chest, rubbing hands over his tired eyes.

“I mean- that’s basically all of it so...” he rasps. Not being able to hold it in any longer, he told the two the whole story of his and Jefferson’s affair, of course he did omit the more lewd details. He just couldn’t keep it all in anymore, his insides are more tangled then a cat's cradle and think out loud usually helps him sort out his issues. It didn’t this time. Even after reliving the past few months he still can’t pinpoint the moment this all went to shit. 

The obvious answer would have been this morning, the second he realised that he didn’t,  doesn’t, mind Jefferson’s embrace, but no. No, as easy as it would be to mark that as the moment he was horribly screwed he feels like there’s more to it, like he’s maybe felt this way a lot longer than he cares to admit. He had done nothing to stop Thomas last night, in fact, as he plays the moments back in his head, he was almost preening under his touch like some lovesick puppy. But that can’t be it either. How long has he felt like this? Hamilton is  struggle to put a date to it, refuses to admit that this frustrating infatuation has lasted more than a few days.   
“Aww” Peggy croons, scratching her nails lightly over his scalp.

“Don’t ‘aww’” he snaps back at her. “This isn’t ‘awww’, this is horrible, this is gross and awful and i’m gonna cut off my hands so Jefferson can’t hold them.”

“But then you won’t be able to write” she points out. 

“Speech to text” he shoots back. “I’ll be fine as long as Jefferson stays the hell away from me.”

Laf sighs extravagantly, flicking off the excess polish from the end of his brush “No no no no Alex. You may be able to lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to me. I have-”

“You don’t have Love ESP”

“-I have Love ESP” the frenchman finishes with firm little nod that makes Peggy giggle. “And I know how you really feel about Thomas, I can see how you care for him.”

Alexander huffs, drawing his knees up to his chest. Lafayette squawked, chiding him sternly to ‘not move before the paint dries.”

“I don’t care about him” Hamilton mutters harshly. “I hate him. I hate that asshole. He’s an arrogant son of a bitch and I do not care about him.”

Peggy presses her chin into the crook of his shoulder. “Then why not break up with him? If you really don’t like him and he annoys you, why even hang around him anymore. It seemed to work in the past.”

“No it did not” Laf interjects. Carefully he pulls Hamilton’s legs away from his chest and puts his feet back in his lap so he can continue painting his nails. “All they ever did was scream at each other and piss each other off.”

Alexander runs his hands roughly through his hair, only to have Peggy bat them away. “First of all, we’re not dating, we were never dating. And I  only think he’s annoying  because he’s so smart, like, I think he’s the only person as smart as me.”

“Well I guess I’ll just go fuck myself then.” Peggy grumbles, tugging gently on his hair. 

He brushes her comment away with a flippant wave of his hand. “You know what I mean. But it’s like, he’s brilliant, but at the same time his views on things couldn't be more abhorrent. But when he talks it's like, I want to believe he’s right, because he has such well thought out points, which makes me want to prove him wrong twice as much. And okay-” he sags against the back of the sofa, cheek smooshing against the fabric. “-maybe he’s not wrong all the time, but most of the time it’s either well articulated horse shit or insults. Some of the time.” he adds

Actually, now that Alexander is thinking about it, he can’t remember the last time Jefferson outright insulted him. Not in any recent memory, that’s for sure. The virginian is a  lot more docile when he’s in his apartment.    
“He’s got a really nice apartment too” Hamilton continues, allowing this train of thought to take him where it may. Maybe he can finally find the end of this knot twisted tightly in his stomach. “He’s less of a dick when he's home and he leaves me alone while I work, which is a plus. And- okay- i don’t hate debating with him, he actually makes it challenging, which is refreshing. And I kind of don't really mind spending time with him....”

_ Fuck _

“I'm sorry but, you said you guys aren't dating?” Peggy interjects, pausing her braiding

Hamilton groans, pulling away from his friends so he can curl himself into a little ball with his face buried in his hands. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Leave ‘im be.” Laf slaps his hands together, so giddy Alexander can practically feel the sunshine pouring off of him in waves. “This is wonderful Alexander. I knew you were smitten with ‘im!”

“I absolutely am not, fuck off.” Hamilton retorts from between his fingers. His cheeks are slowly flushing a hot, splotchy red.

Peggy threads her fingers into his hair, smoothing out the knots. “He does make you happy though, right?”

The little immigrant scoffs. “No. Actually he makes me feel like complete and utter shit half the time, but, then-” he thinks back on the softer moments of their ‘relationship’, times when Thomas showed himself to be tender and kind. They are odd moments, juxtaposed with their other interactions which were so full of maicel and bile. They are kind of- nice, which both disgusts him and makes his stomach do happy little somersaults. “- sometimes he’s not a total ass.” he petters off lamely.

“And you want to be with ‘im?” Laf asks.

Alexander shakes his head. “No. Not-” Damn it, why is it so hard for him to find the words. Perhaps he left them all on the floor of Jefferson’s bedroom when he made his escape. He swallows and tries again. “I’m just not ready.”

“How so?” Laf asks

Hamilton shrugs feebly. “There’s a lot of shit between us and- I don’t know if I’m ready to put that behind me just yet. I mean, we've hated each other for so long and I don't- I don’t think that i'm ready for  that to change. And, I don't know that I’m ready to make that kind of commitment right now, don’t know if I have it in me to get invested. Say i take all these shitty emotions and feelings and crap and I roll with it and I get in too deep and I- get fucking hurt because god knows we’ve never gotten along before and just because we’ve been screwing doesn’t mean he’s interested or anything now.”

Laf taps him lightly on the side of the knee, prompting him to look up “You’re babbling, little lion.”

“I know...” he mutters. “But I’ve been saying over and over and over that this-’thing’ we’re doing  wasn't going to get serious. I can’t just turn around and say ‘nevermind!’ when I’ve been the one pushing it.”

“Alexander” Lafayette murmurs. “Don’t you see the way he looks at you?”

“Like I’m pathetic? Yeah, every day since he came back from his abroad in France.” Hamilton mutters into his fist.

The frenchman shakes his head, little grin playing over his lips. “He looks at you like you will never admit you look at him. I don’t think there’s a damn thing you could say to him  to turn him away, he’s stubborn like that.”

“I’m not even sure I want him.. .” he admits, then sighs “Damn it, why can’t we just stay the way we were? Why did everything have to change?”

“You can not, ‘ow you say? ‘Ave the cake and eat it at the same time?” Laf shakes his head. “Non, avoiding the issues is unfair to you and Thomas.”

To this, Alexander lets out a pitiful whine.

God, he’s a mess. His whole life has been swirling down the drain and it’s all Jefferson’s fault. 

And still

It was nice when he held him close like that this morning.

Why did he leave?

Oh right

Because he’s a fucking coward that doesn’t know what he wants.

“Im screwed.” he mutters under his breath.   
Peggy runs her hands gently down his arms. “You don’t have to decide right now.” She soothes. “Take some time to think about it And in the meantime, we can go buy that new mic filament.”

 

Hamilton tries very hard not to think about Jefferson the whole time the three of them are at the store. He pushes down the unpleasant feeling of rattling insect wings against his stomach and helps Peggy hunt down the wiring they need instead. It distracts him a bit, enough that his fingers stop trembling and  his knees don't feel quite so weak. The walk the mall strip the rest of the morning, grabbing some coffee from the starbucks, ducking in and out of departments stores and generally terrorizing the early morning staff. Laf drags them into the Kohls, insistent on buying Alexander a new pair of sneakers because the ones he has now are basically falling apart. He only convinces Hamilton to let him pay by claiming that they’re an early birthday present. Peggy parades around the store in a pair of heart shaped sunglasses while Alexander grabs the cheapest pair of shoes he can find and at the checkout she buys them, along with two packs of gum and a bag of peanut M&Ms. They poke around in a few more stores, pick up some soup and sandwiches at the Panera across the street, then head over to the theater at around two thirty.

Laf unlocks the doors from them and the all head up the the lighting booth to see if Peggy can work her electronic magic on the broken mic mixer. It takes a while, Alexander picks absentmindedly at some leftover lettuce stuck to his sandwich wrap paper while she does her thing. A good two hours later she sets down her pliers and the hook up the mic to test it out. Alexander drones into the mic while Peggy fiddles with the wires, the mic cracks and pops until finally , they get the wires in just the right place. Peggy grabs up a roll of electrical tape and careful covers the exposed wires.

There’s knock at the door and Hamilton swivels around to see who it is. Laurens leans against the doorframe with his hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie.

“Sup guys” he greets them with  bob of his head.

Alexander shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He and John haven’t talked almost at all since their childish fight three weeks back.

“Bonjour, John” Lafayette replies merrily. “What brings you all the way up here?”

He takes a few shuffling steps into the room, stopping at the arm of Alexander’s chair “I was looking for you guys. Y’all fix the mic yet?” 

“Yup!” Peggy chirps, dusting her hands off on her jeans before turning to pull out the mic container. “That’s should hold until we can order a new mixer. You know, if the school is done trying to defund us.”

Both Hamilton and John chuckle. “But then how ever are they gonna buy the football team their own personal bus?” Alexander inquires, pushing out of his chair, tucking his arms loosely over his check.

John snorts. “Really though.”

The little immigrant shoots him a look out of the corner of his eye, only to find that John’s doing the same thing. He shifts his weight anxiously from foot to foot. This is uncomfortable to say the least. 

Peggy seems to catch onto the strained atmosphere before anyone else in the room because the next thing she does is grab Laf by his elbow and drag him from the booth. 

“Come on babe, let's go give these mics to Burr.” and with that they disappear around the corner. Leaving Alexander and John alone together for the first time in nearly a month.

“Idiots” Hamilton breaths as he listens to the fading sound of their footsteps on the old metal catwalks.

John merely nods and the lapse back into unbearable silence. 

He’s just about ready to make up some sort of excuse to get himself out of here when John finally pipes up.

“Sooooo” he starts slowly, twisting the hair tie around his wrist. “Do you apologize first, do I apologize first? Who apologizes first, because we’ve both kinda been acting like assholes.”

A dumb grin breaks over Hamilton's face. He lets loose a deep sigh and pushes his hair back out of his face. “Goddamn it, John, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so petty about it. You were just worried about me, I should have-”

“No” Laurens shakes his head. “No dude, you were right, I was acting like a psycho ex. I’m sorry for losing my shit like that. You’re right, it isn’t my business to dictate who you can and cannot hang out with.”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “Okay, that was shitty of you, but I shouldn’t just ditched you guys, and -” he doesn’t like to admit when he’s wrong. He likes to live life unabashed and unrepentant  of his mistakes. That’s no way to grow however. How can he expect to be a better man if he refuses to own up to his mistakes and learn from them? It was his stubborn, bullheadedness that got him here in the first place, and here was lonely and isolated. He’d much rather admit he was wrong then lose his friends. “I should have told you what was going on, you are my best friend after all.”

“You don’t owe me anything, man.” John replied, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “It’s okay to keep somethings to yourself. I flew off the handle. I was pissed, ya know, because it’s Jefferson and that guy's a fucking asshole and we’re suppose to hate him, that’s like our thing. But think I’ve changed my mind a little bit, I think he’s been a good influence on you.”

Alexander scoffs. “I doubt it.”

“No seriously dude” Laurens insists. “Your hair is clean, it looks like you’ve been eating on a regular basis and you finally ditched those eye bags. Like, I get that they were designer but they were tacky as fuck.” he grins down brightly at Hamilton and Hamilton chuckles, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“I fucking missed you dude” he laughs.

John laughs with him.

Alexander glues himself to Lauren's side for the rest of pre show prep, they catch up on the past few weeks while they set out props and whatnot. Its really nice to be able to talk and joke with him like they used but he’d be lying if he didn’t have ulterior motives for hovering around him. He’s not ready to talk to Jefferson yet and he knows that Jefferson’s social anxiety won't let him pull Hamilton away and cause a scene in front of all these people. Perhaps it's a bit cruel but he just can’t imagine having to confront Thomas and try to explain himself when he’s still grappling with the fact he might, sort of , definitely like him. That's an earth shaking revelation for Hamilton. Who would have thought when this whole thing began that he would end up pinning over the Virginian after so many years of scorn. It’s almost as if this was all the cruel plan of some capricious puppet master. Its would seem that he’s doomed it care for a man he’s hated for years,and he finds that frustrating. Hamilton never asked for this. He didn’t come into this relationship with the intention of spurring a romance, he never wanted to feel for Jefferson, that wasn’t the intention. Alexander would have been perfectly content to go on hating him for the rest of his life but it's very hard to hate someone when you spend time with them. You get to know them and see them as a person instead of an assortment of traits that annoy you. You learn things about them, notice little details about them that become endearing over time, like the way they hold their pen or the rhythm of their steps when they walk. You pick up on the things they enjoy, notice how the corners of their lips curl up when they smile. He knows Jefferson now, he knows lots of things about him and knowledge has smoothed down the sharp edges Alexander placed upon him all those years ago. And that pisses him off.

They’ve gone through so many years of bad, of vile interactions and biting comments that were meant to leave lasting marks. Is he supposed to just brush that all to the side now because his knees go weak at the thought of Jefferson’s smile. He’s pissed because now instead of hating him, Alexander can see a hazy image of them a year from now, maybe on Thomas’ estate, curled up in some chair by a fire with him in Thomas’ lap and a book between them and that’s unfair. Hamilton doesn’t want to think of him like that, he doesn't want to go all starry eyed over Jefferson because love is messier than people care to admit. He’s not even sure if he likes Jefferson, or if he just likes the idea of him. A tall, attractive intellectual that makes him breakfast in the morning. A warm body he can leech heat from in the cold of December. It’s also quite possible that Thomas’ isn’t even interested in him. He knows what Laf said, but there's no such thing as Love ESP. Love makes you tear down your walls and that’s a terrifying thought. Jefferson for all his softness, is still dangerous, as Hamilton’s rival he knows exactly what it takes to get under Alexander’ skin. Hamilton can’t risk making himself so vulnerable on the off chance that maybe ,  _ maybe  _ Laf is right. In the end it all boils down to issue of him not being able to read minds, not even his own apparently. If he could know for sure that he actually cares for Jefferson and he isn’t just infatuated with him, if he knew how Jefferson felt about him, then maybe he could decide if he wants him or not. But he can’t read minds and he’s still too much of a coward to stray from what he knows, and what he knows is hate. 

The way Jefferson hates him is a constant, its firm, Once Upon a Time that gave him peace of mind. Alexander has never really had stability, his childhood was one hurricane after the other, constantly tearing up the roots he tied so hard to plant. He’s found some solid soil here at King’s college and within the theater but now he feels like he’s being uprooted again. Ever since Jefferson stepped onto this stage for his audition Hamilton has felt the earth start to erode from under his feet and now all he has left to stand on is loose patch of dirt. Their mutual loathing has been his last foothold, he can’t stand that thought of being thrown back into uproar. It’s silly, Alexander knows that. He knows that if he wants to make it and make a name for himself then he's’ going to have to push out of his comfort zone and that’s fine, as long as he’s the one calling the shots. Its when things are no longer in his control that he starts to panic, he hates the feeling of being thrown about in the winds of uncertainty, with no ability to control his direction. That’s why he hesitates to throw himself fully into these feelings, it's the reason he’s tried so hard for so long to ignore them. To be in a place where he doesn’t hate Jefferson is too alien of a concept for him. He can't sort it out in his head, a relationship with Thomas holds more ‘what if’s then he thinks he can handle. He doesn’t want heartbreak, he wants the warm red love Peggy has with Laf. 

Alexander squeezes his eyes shut tight and digs his fingernails into the wood grain of the table he’s leaning against. He can’t stand feeling so unsure of himself. 

“Alex?”

At the sound of his name he glances up.

Burr hovers a few feet in front of him. He keeps fidgeting with the wires on his headset which is unusual. He’s usually as cool and stoic as a rock.

Hamilton shifts out of his slumped position against the table's edge and assumes a more upright position. “What’d you need Burr?”

“I can’t get Jefferson out of the dressing room.” he admits, picking at the tape peeling of the side of his headsets battery pack. 

“What do you mean you can’t get him out of the dressing room? Is he stuck on something.” he inquires.

Burr shakes his head. “He’s refuses to leave.”

Hamilton’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “It’s ten minutes to lights up.” he baulks.

“I told him that.” Burr runs a hand down his neck. “But he says he’s not coming up unless you come and get him.”

Suddenly Alexander’s skin is too cold and too tight. He wipes his hands anxiously on the fronts of his jeans. “Damnit,,,”

“What are you going to do?” Burr asks.

“What can I do?” he replies, voice tight. “I’ve gotta drag his sorry ass up here.” with a vacuum forming in his chest that draws the air from his lungs, the little stage manager brushes hurriedly past Burr.

“Good luck, I suppose.” he calls after him.

The creaking, groaning joints of the metal stairs to the dressing room make the hair on the back of his arms stand at attention. Alexander feels waves of emotion swelling up in his chest. Towering, dark, icy walls of dread, frustration the frothing whitecap at each waves peek. On the one hand, he’s in no right state to talk to Jefferson. He’s still trying to sort through the tangled threads of conflicting emotions to find out what he really wants and he has a feel that just being around Thomas is going to make that more difficult. On the other hand, how dare Jefferson jeopardize his show like this. Annoyance bubble red hot just below his skin, the icy sea starts to steam. Maybe somethings never change, even as love struck as he is Jefferson still finds ways to piss Alexander off.  He sweeps into the dressing room like a scorching desert breeze, puffing stray hair out of his face. 

And there Jefferson is, fully in costume, dancing nervously  from foot to foot. His head bounces up at the sound of Alexander feet on the tiles. He offers up a small, breathless smile, lips parting slowly so he can speak, but Alexander bets him to it.

“Jefferson what the fuck are you doing, the show’s about to start.” He hisses

He doesn’t imagine it, no, Alexander is done pretending not to notice the little things Thomas does, because he sees them, he watches Thomas’ face fall. The light in his eyes dims. “Wanted to talk to you.” he mumbles.

“Ten minutes till lights up.” Peggy’s voice buzzes the reminder in his ear. Hamilton groans.

“We can talk later alright?” he pleads  “But you’ve got to get up on stage right now, come on.”

“Why did you get up and leave all of a sudden?” Thomas’ eyes are round with question, seeking out answers.

“Oh my god we don’t have time for this.” he moans, slapping a hand over his eyes. 

Why must Jefferson makes everything so difficult?

Thomas continues to press him. “Did something happen?”

“No- Jefferson please-”

His headset clicks alive once more. “Alexander what’s  taking so long?”  Burr asks.

Hamilton presses the talk button on his mic swiftly. “Just give me a minute.”

“You don’t have a minute.” Burr shoots back.

Alexander drops the button and twists fingers into his ponytail. None of this seems to faze Jefferson because he continues his assault of inquiries.

“Did I do something?” he asks meekly. To think, this brash man could ever sound meek, it would have been laughable in a different life.

Instead cool twilight settles over Hamilton at his words. “Yes.” he breathes, which makes Thomas look rather startled. “Yeah you did do something. You snuck up on me. I don’t know how, but you wormed your way in and now I-” his voice rises, starts to tremble. He balls his shaking hands into fist and presses on. “You never asked my permission, you just did it. You snuck up on me and made me feel shit, you made me care. Who gave you the fucking right!?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen!” Jefferson shouts back. His broad shoulders are drawn tight up around his ears. “You think I wanted things to happen like this? I didn’t try to fall in love with you!”

Alexander’s legs turn to mush under the weight of his words. Suddenly boneless, he staggers back a step, eyes glued to Jefferson. He couldn’t pull them away if he wanted to, Jefferson’s gravity is too strong. “What?” he whispers into to empty space between them.

Thomas acts as though he didn’t hear him, like he didn’t see the way Hamilton folded in on himself.  He flattens his lips into a thin, pale line a stares hard at his shoes. “I told myself.” he starts on a shaky breath. “I promised myself I wouldn’t fall for you. That night, that first time, I told myself that if I was going to do.... what I did.....i had to keep myself guarded. And it worked for a while, I figured because I despised you so much things would be fine, but i guess i couldn’t stop myself. Poor, pathetic Thomas can’t even have a one night stand without going all starry eyed over some asshole. Stupid Thomas has to go and pine after Alexander Hamilton, mooning after him like he’s actually got a chance. God Alexander, I’ve kissed you every night since this show started because I’m that pathetic. It’s only ever been you I think about when I’m up there.” He shakes his head, curls bouncing. “I'm not and idiot, I knew that we weren’t a thing, I knew you didn’t want me like that, but that didn’t stop me. It’s dumb. Its so dumb for me to want you. You’re so fucking annoying and brash and vulgar. You eat my food and use my water and bother the living hell out of me whenever you try to make a point, like some yappy fucking dog. I would wake up some days and ask myself why I'm putting myself through this  _ hell _ . I would try to come up with reasons to justify keeping you around, and none of them ever seemed good enough. But whenever I was about to just give it all up, there you would be, on my couch, hair up, in some horrid hoodie and suddenly none of that shit mattered anymore. Because” his  misty gaze meets Alexander’s “I look at you- and things just make  _ sense _ . I look at you and things feel better, things feel  _ right  _ again. So I thought, god I thought that I could make you feel the same way. I thought that if I was sublet, I could at least pretend that I had you. I was cautious, I didn't want to scare you away, and for a while it seemed like it was work. It was almost everything I wanted, sometimes I even tricked myself into thinking you cared but then you would go, or you’d called me ‘Jefferson’ and I knew.... I hate it when you leave, I can’t stand when you leave in the morning after. Whenever you walk out that door I feel like I'm  _ dying  _ because I don’t know if you’re ever coming back! It’s so hard to want you, it's so hard for me to keep up.”

Treacherous heat pricks at the corners of Alexander’s eyes. He bites down hard on his lower lip and swallows down the ache in his chest, pushes his heart back between his ribs. “Why?” he asks thickly. “Why would you want me?I’m - I’m a babysitter with a clipboard,,,I’m nothing compared to what you can do”

Jefferson’s face cracks “Oh darlin’, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I was wrong, I was so wrong Alex.”

Hamilton scoffs, it's such a wet sound it mind as well have been a sob. His headset crackles again, it’s Burr.

“Alex, lights go up in five, what’s taking so long?” he mutters harshly in his ear.

“Just give me a minute.” he tries to make his voice firm and even.

“No Alex we need you both upstairs right now.”

“- please just-” Hamilton chokes. It's too much, it's all too overwhelming. He feeling like he’s being pulled apart by the chusing gravity surrounding him.

Before he really registers what’s happening, Jefferson crosses the space between them and seizes his headset from his head. 

“He said to give us a minute.” he barks into the mic. Then he throws it clean across the room, with enough force to pull the cord right out of the battery pack. 

The plastic clatters sharply on the tile as the headpiece skids out of sight.

“Hey-!” Alexander starts, but then Thomas is pulling him tight to his chest and the words are left to drown in his shirt front.

One arm wraps around his waist, his other hand rest on the back of Alexander’s neck, cradling his head to his chest.  Jefferson strokes his hair gently. “I was wrong about you.” he murmurs. “I was wrong about a lot of things. I didn’t realize how much you do for this show. You do more than I could fathom. You’re not useless and you are no babysitter. You’re incredible. Darlin.’”

Alexander feels so stupid for getting emotional like this, but something has to give. Through all the trials of the  past few weeks, all the anguish this show as brought him he was more or less able to keep himself together, even though his whole world was crumbling around him. But Jefferson always finds the cracks in his defenses, and the levees can only takes so much pressure for so long. With a choked out whimper, Hamilton buries his flushed face into Thomas’ chest, balling his hands into fists in his shirtfront. It’s going to be wrinkled now, and probably a little damp but he’s to overwhelmed to bring himself to care at the moment. He just needs a chance to level out his breathing. Thomas runs fingers through his hair and holds him tight until his shoulders stop shaking so violently. 

When he can find his voice again, Alexander presses his cheek to Thomas’ front, he can hear the faint thump of his heart in his chest.

“What do you want from me?” he asks.

“Go on a date with me.”

Hamilton gasps out a laugh, clutching at him tighter. After everything, after all the bullshit and the fighting and the pinning and other messy shit that got them here, that's what Jefferson wants. It's such an innocent request, ironic in its simplicity. How could he not find it amusing?

“I’m serious.” Thomas continues. “I want to date you, take you to the movies and buy you dinner and all that other crap that couples do, I’m the last person on earth you’d want to be with, I’m sure. We don't have a very civil past and I’m not saying that’ll be easy to get over. This is going to be new and strange and complicated, but it you would give me a chance. I want to prove myself to you Alexander, and if I have to buy you crap energy drinks for the rest of my life I’ll do it.”

Alexander chuckles again, but the sound doesn’t live very long once it leaves his throat. Like a match in the void of space, it’s immediately snuffed out. 

“I don’t know,,,” he mutters softly.

“Alex-”

He presses his head to Thomas’ shoulder. “I’d like that, god, that actually sounds great but I- I need some time to think. There’s just- too much going on right now and I can’t- Let's just finish the show, okay.  It all to much right now.” carefully he wriggles out of the other man’s hold. “I’m sorry.”

Jefferson nods, looking utterly crestfallen. “Of course, take all the time you need.”

Alexander can feel Jefferson’s eyes on him as he shuffles across the room and snatches rhe headset from the floor. His gaze burns in the back of his neck as he plugs the core back in and then shuffles out of the room. Thomas himself, doesn’t follow. 

He rubs rough palms over his cheeks, scrubbing the skin hard until it glows red from the abuse and counts his breaths as he takes the stairs up into the main hub of the theater. Everyone is waiting for him, waiting for him to bring up Thomas, that is. Because Thomas is the real star of this show, and Hamilton- Well, at least he gets to read the announcements before the curtains open. The whole of the backstage is hushed, actors and techies alike poised to spring into action as soon as Alexander gives them the okay. His insides tumble and roll like a gymnast as he takes a handheld mic in his hand and waits for the sound over Jefferson’s foot falls on the metal steps. He takes a deep, steadying breath as hollow clangs die down, Jefferson spares him a soft look as he passes him on his way out to the stage, Alexander catches it from the corner of his eye. No time to dwell, theater runs best when you drop your personal baggage at the door. Alexander rolls back his shoulders, trying to ease the tension, the stress, the emotion from his back, clicks the mic on and starts to speak.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and esteemed patrons, tonight the Kings College theater department is proud to present Three Weeks of Summer.” there's a polite smattering of applause. Hamilton flattens out the tremble in his voice and presses on. “At this time, we ask that you turn off all cell phones and other loud devices as a courtesy to the other partitions as well as the actors. Filming is not permitted and we ask that you refrain from using flash photography, it's scares our actors.” Some laughter, it helps dissolve the caustic pit in his stomach. “Without further ado, we bring you- Three Weeks of Summer.” 

The audience applauds, the curtains swing open and light floods the stage. Alexander sets the mic down and shuffles back into the safety of the shadows. Back to his stoll and his binder and his team of anxious freshman. With some hesitation, he flips back on his headset. However he leaves it on the lowest volume, not interested in the dull drone of Burr asking him a million questions. Instead he focuses on the stage, following Jefferson with his tired eyes as he and his scene partner saunter across the stage with bottles swinging in their grasps. And good lord, Jefferson really is an actor in a league of his own. Merely minutes ago he was on the verge of breaking down, curling Alexander to his chest so tight you’d think the little stage manager was water trying to escape his fingers but now, the way he carries himself reeks of arrogance. The same arrogance Alexander used to think he produces naturally, but Hamilton knows better now. He’s spent enough time with Thomas now to know that his smile is a little too sharp at its edges to be real.

He’s seen Jefferson’s real smile, and he doesn’t find it quite as annoying as his cocky smirk. His real smile looks like it's powered by the goddamn sun and Hamilton  feels the blisters it's left on him start to warm at the memory. It's a smile he could lost in, waste a few hour basking in its radiance if he’d only let himself. He wishes it was that easy. He wishes there was a switch he could flip that would make this simple, something that could wipe away all those years of bad and leave him and Thomas exact as they are now. On the verge of something tender. That would be nice. That would be easy. But how does one gather themselves after their whole world has been turned on its head. Falling for Jefferson was easy, now that he thinks about it, it really didn’t take much, but coming to terms with his infatuation is a difficult concept to grasp. He needs to find firm footing to put his thoughts right. Jefferson will surely be expecting an answer after the lights go down and Alexander intends to give it to him. When he’s no longer beinging pulled in a million directions of course. 

So Alexander starts to make a list in his head, sorting it all out into to neat little columns so it's not so loud inside his head. Thomas is smart , attractive, witty and clever. He’s one of the the smarts men he knows and while the virginian hasn’t always used that power for good, even in their darkest moments Alexander has always respected what he can do with a pen. And there are other things. There’s more to Thomas then dark eyes and sharp words. He also kind and strangely caring. He’s awkward and anxious and somehow fragile and while all these things sound so nice when you wrap them up in a little magenta bow, Alexander has seen the other side of this coin too. He knows Jefferson as the capacity to be cruel, he’s had first hand experience with his rage. Those times when Thomas spits insults like fire with the intention of burning people, mostly Hamilton himself, down to their core. It didn't hurt so much then, back when he had walls and counterarguments loaded like bullets on the tip of his tongue, but know when Alexander looks back on all that they said it leaves him with the foul taste on the back of his tongue. 

How can he be sure this is real. When it comes to Jefferson, the only thing he was ever sure of was that they hated each other with the passion of ancient, vengeful gods but even that truth has dissipated. How can he be sure that ten years, three years, hell,  one year down the road Thomas will feel the same way. It's possible that Jefferson is high on the thought of them, thinks it sounds good in his head. Maybe he’s like Alexander, maybe he’s looking for someone to brave the nights with but after a while he’ll get sick of him and oh god, now Hamilton understands what Jefferson meant dying because he can’t seem to get the right amount of air into his lungs. This must be what fish feel when they’re pulled from the sea, trying desperately to pull air from nothing. Hamilton’s heart is flopping about uselessly in his chest at the thought of Thomas abandoning him.

Alexander’s been losing people his entire life and he can’t- he just can’t lose another person he cares about. He never had a stable home for long when he was growing up, he was jostled from place to place until he finally plopped down on gate to this university. Yet somehow, impossibly he found home in Jefferson. Jefferson feels like home now, with his stupid loft that’s still and peaceful, and his stupid hands that have the extraordinary ability to quiet him and his stupid mouth that makes Hamilton  _ want _ to slow down and enjoy the little moments. These roots are new and tender, and Hamilton know it’ll hurt to tear them up. He doesn't want to tear them up, he wants to plant himself somewhere and this feel like the place but he still hesitates to let them burrow deeper. Because it seems like they’re on the verge of something earth shattering here. Like they’re riding the edge of glory and ruin or damnation and freedom and the whole of Alexander’s world is revolving around Thomas’ axies, he could either fight against the pull or let himself be sucked into it.

When this all started Alexander was content to take all of what Jefferson was offering him and nothing more. It was enough then, but Hamilton has never been content with just enough. He wants everything, even the parts Thomas is less willing to share. He wants home, he wants security, he wants  _ red _ . He wants to know that Jefferson could give him all of that if he asked. He talks pretty but words can be cheap and actions have a much firmer foundation to build one's beliefs on. There must be some sort of sign that would put his racing mind to rest and finally let Alexander give in like he wants to. Were his sense of self preservation a bit weaker,  he would have said yes back in the dressing room, but he’s learned the hard way that it's better to go though life guarded. 

Intermission comes and goes. Alexander is thankful that Thomas gives him the space that he needs and doesn’t seek him out during the break. He picks at his script duly thought the whole of act two, searching the plain brick wall of the backstage as though it might give him the answer he’s looking for. Stones can't speak however, and so they offer up no direction. Hamilton bites down on his knuckles and watches as the cast floods that stage for the closing number. It’s loud, brash and hopeful, everything a final song should be. Little goosebumps tingle over his arms as the music soars and as the last bar start to fade he feels heat prick in his eyes once more.

This is the last time he’s going to hear that song like this. The last time the whole ensemble will be like this, dancing and singing with such enthusiasm together. The last time he’s going to see this performance on his stage. 

The final bars of the song ring thought the rafters, echoing the melody back at them with the same glee. One final cord, blinding pink light flashes across the stage, then everything goes dark and quiet. It hardly lasts a second, however. When the song ends the audience burst into raucous applause, a thundering sound that hammers a weairy smile on to Alexander’s face.  They did it, the show is over for the last time, never to grace the stage again. His heart leaps in his chest as the lights come up on the final curtain call. 

Hamilton watches as the actors step into positions, as they come forward in groups to take their bows for the last time. First the ensemble, then the minor characters. Angelica gets a bow all to herself and the intensity of the applauds increase as she takes center stage. Then the leads step forward, Jefferson and Eliza, hand in hand. Thomas guides Eliza out in front of him, putting her right under the spotlight with a soft look on his face that could only be read as admiration.

Eliza always seems so small under the harsh stage light, fair skin practically glowing, giving her an ethereal look as she steps up to take her bow. The crowd loses their goddamn minds as she steps up, and she looks a tad taken aback by the cheering  and the hollering. But then she smiles sweetly out at the audience, claps her hands behind her back, and does a little curty. The crowd grows even more frenetic, if that's even possible, and she laughs. She moves back fot the edge of the stage and motions for Jefferson to take her place.

He’s meet with his fair share of brazen appluds and a good amount of rather feminine sounding cheers. Thomas cocks his mouth into a teasing smirk and bows deep from the waist, curls bobbing playfully as he comes back up. He gestures to Eliza to take his hand and she does with grace, extending her other hand towards the actor behind her. Angelica takes Thomas’ free hand and on and on down the line it goes until the entire cast is lined up along the edge of the stage hand in hand. 

This the last time this will ever happen. This is the last time they’ll all be together like this. The last time Alexander will see the stage lights shine though Jefferson’s hair like this, the last time the curtains will swing close. These are the last couple of seconds of his life before everything changes, because everything will change after this. Once the lights fall nothing will ever be the same, no matter what he chooses to do, things between him and Jefferson will be different. Even if they go back to hating each other, it will never be the same, because words can be redacted but never forgotten. These are the last moments before every truth that Alexander holds onto for dear life die and he’s once again submerged in uncertainty.

And so he watches, with baited breath and his heart somewhere in his throat as the ensemble raise their arms in unison, and take that final bow. The theater is thrown into uproar, no doubt the whole of the auditorium is on its feet. Alexander wishes he could see what that looks like, he’s never had the pleasure of experiences a standing ovation with his eyes. The curtains are due to swing shut any minute now, closing the book on this chapter of his life.

But funnily enough, they don’t.

Hamilton’s brows draw tight in the center of his face as, instead of the curtains falling shut, the house lights come up. His pulse starts to hammer in his ears as he wipes around trying to figure out what’s going on.

“Er hello, can everyone hear me?” the sound of Jefferson’s voice immediately snaps his attention back to the stage floor.

Without practiced lines to recite, the confidence is ebbing rapidly from the virginian's massive frame. He hunches over a little like he’s trying not be so damn tall and tucks his elbows to his sides, cradling a handheld mic close to his face. He flashes a sheepish smile out at the audience. 

“I just wanted to thank y’all for coming out here tonight to see our final performance of Three Weeks of Summer.” he mumbles. “It really means a lot to all of us up here in the department.” to this, the crowd erupts into another wave of appudieds. As it dies down, Thomas chuckles and cards fingers though the hair at the back of his neck. “Thank you, we all appreciate it, really. But there are some people here tonight that we’ve still got to mention. First, I’d like y’all to give a hand to our set designers and prop crew, they’re the ones that made this insane set right here.” More applauds, this time less boisterous. Jefferson nods in approval before raising his arm up, gesturing towards the sound booth. “I’d also appreciate it if you gave a hand to our lighting and sound designer, Peggy Schuyler. She’s up in the booth right now.” Peggy makes the lights do a little dance, throwing happy splashes of pink and yellow across the stage floor, and the icy dread in Alexander’s chest starts to melt a little.

Jefferson signed on to do this play as a cruel joke, Hamilton know this. It was another means for him to get under the little immigrant skin. It was a petty, spiteful decision at first but it’s clear now how much the theater and all its performers have touched him. Thomas genuinely cares about the others and Hamilton would have never guessed he could be affected like that. That Jefferson could have his whole view changed in just a couple of months. It’s astounding how much things have shifted. But Jefferson isn’t done with his spiel.

“I’d also like to acknowledge our makeup team, cause god knows I could never figure it out. A thanks to our costume designer, Hercules for these amazing, mostly handmade outfits. Ya’ll do a lot of great stuff for this program. And thank y’all out there in the seats for baring with me, but we still got one more person to thank.”

Of course, Washington.

“I’d like y’all to meet the man behind all of this. He’s the backbone of this department and without him, this performance wouldn’t even be half of what it is. His dedication and love of theater is the reason we’re even here tonight. Please give warm welcome to the man responsible for all of this. Our very own- Alexander Hamilton.”

Hamilton blinks.

And blinks again.

Because surely, this is all a dream. He’s still back in bed with Thomas, snuggled up under the sheet with the bastard breathing into his ear because this is all too surreal. His brain is fried, severed wire sparking as he tries to make the connection between the words and their meaning.

Everything that happens next is a blur. First, the audience exploded into a violent round of applauds, a hundred pairs of hands clapping- for Alexander. Jefferson peers at him through the curtains, a patient smile painted on his face. He gestures grandly with his arm, mouthing ‘come on’ at him, compiling Hamilton in his direction, but Hamilton’s lost all control of his motor functions at this point. And yet, somehow he finds himself moving forward. He whips his head around to see John, pushing him forward with a megawatt smile plastered to his freckled face.

“Go” he instructs Alexander, shoving closer and closer to the curtain line. There’s laughter in his breath that Alexander can’t quite process. “Dude, go.”

And then he’s on the stage. Out under the burning lights. They’re blinding, he swintes against their harsh, brilliant rays as hands drag him forward. He sweeps the hair out his eyes to see who’s got him now. Eliza beams at him, dark eyes alight as she drags him by his wrist towards center stage, directly under the spotlight.

The crowed is defining out here on the apron of the stage, the ferocity of their applauds rattles his eardrums Even though he squints through the brilliant stage lights, Alexander can only barely make out a churning sea of dark, featureless blobs, every one of them on their feet. Hamilton swallows around his dry tongue, no longer able to tell if the pounding in his ears is coming from the audience or his own frantic heart. Poised at the edge of the stage, he blinks owlishly out over the auditorium. He’s still a bit numb, fingers like ice as he tries to make this real, convince himself that this isn't some fever dream. These people- they’re clapping for him. They’re recognizing him. They see him

He’s not phantom, he’s not just another faceless name in the back of the program.

He’s seen.

Hamilton’s legs start to tremble, overwhelmed by it all. The sounds, the lights, the voices, the people. It’s dizzying and incredible, and he feels it start to sweep him away. A warm hand in his own draws him back.

He looks to his left and there’s Thomas, offering him a shy smile and meaningful look. He squeezes carefully around Alexander’s fingers, then slowly start to raise their joined hands up. It’s such an odd sensation, new and unexpected, but Hamilton’s seen it done enough times to be able to take it from here.

Their arms go up, high above their heads, then Alexander throws them back down, bending at the waist as their clasped hands fly up behind their backs. He swings back up, raising woven finger up in triumph. He’s smiling now, he can’t help it, the cheers of everyone around him are infectious and they make his face split in a wide, wet grin. He bows again, all but dragging Jefferson down with him. When he comes back up, he fling his head back with such vigor that his headset goes flying off his ears, but he barely notices over the drumbeat in his chest. The lights start to fade, Alexander lets his hands fall limp against his sides as he hears the rattle of the curtains. The heavy fabric swings shut before him, blocking his view of the still uproarious crowd. The thick faux velvet muffles the applauses from beyond until they start to fade.

The stage is soon thrown into uproar, all around Hamilton, rowdy college kids are whooping and hollering in celebration, crew swarming in from backstage. He’s jostled around in the excitement, everywhere Alexander turns there are people running and shouting. They jump and clap and sherik until their voices can be heard echoing through the catwalks. Some are laughing, shouting and bouncing on the ball of their feet while others around them weep, pulling friends into huge, mushy hug piles, tangled walls of sobbing limbs bound tight around one another. The emotions are tangible, Alexander can taste the relief and joy and longing on the tip of his tongue, can feel it swelling up in his chest. But he draws in breath regardless, preparing to shout over the din for quite, because this is so unprofessional, the audience can still hear them back here, babbling and shouting like a bunch of amateurs. The command doesn’t make it far.

The breath catches hard on the back of his throat as Alexander finds himself suddenly being hoisted into the air. Thomas swooped down on the little stage manager, locked his strong arms round his knees and hoisted him up against his chest. Hamilton squawked at the sudden shift in his center of gravity. His arms fly out as he teeters in Jefferson’s arms, hands eventually clamping down on his board shoulders to steady himself. Jefferson doesn’t seem to notice his flailing.

The taller man is laughing, cute crinkles in the corners of his eyes that make Alexander’s heart skip several beats. He laughs and spins them around like this is the end of some low budget hallmark movie, Hamilton’s arms wrapped around his neck for dear life. They sway on the spot, Jefferson holding him close with one hand on the small of his back and his arm tucking Alexander’s legs to his chest.

He looks absolutely stunning like this. Breathless laughter on his lips, thick curls bouncing in the low light, smiling wide enough to thaw Hamilton’ perpetually frozen fingers. So Alexander does the only logical thing he can think to do and draws the other man in for a kiss. He smashes their mouths together, curling fingers into his hair so he can angle Thomas’ head better, definitely stealing the smile from his lips. Jefferson makes a little noise of surprise but the shock fades quickly and then he’s kissing Alexander back with the same bruising passion. They kiss until they’ve sucked the air from each others lungs, until neither has anything left to give and then they take some more. As they part, Alexander rests his forehead wearily to Thomas’ forehead.

“You’re insane.” he breathes, prying his eyes open just enough to peek at the virginian through his lashes.

Thomas merely shrugs. “About damn time someone took the initiative and gave y’all the respect you deserve.” gingerly he lowers Hamilton to the ground, allowing his hand to linger on his hip. He flashes the little immigrant a meek smile and reached for his hand. “Let’s go home”

Alexander laughs, causing Jefferson's face to scrunch up in confusion. “We’re not even close to done yet” he remarks

Thomas seems even more confused. “The hell you mean? Shows over”

He shakes his head, carefully extracting himself from Thomas’ hold. “We still have to take the set down.”

Jefferson gapes at him, looks over at the set, then back at Hamilton. “Right now?”

“Yeah right now, when else are we gonna do it, we can’t keep it up.” he shoots back.

“But it’s like eleven, can’t we wait until the morning?”

Hamilton shakes his head fervently in response. “No one wants to come in tomorrow. Now, come, quit wasting time.” he claps his hands together, grinning wickedly up at his distraught Thomas. He quickly twists their fingers together and starts dragging the taller man towards the scene shop, where others have already started dragging out hammers and drill. “The sooner we finish this the sooner we get to leave.”

Beside him, Jefferson sighs and lays his head against his shoulder. Quite the bend for someone that tall. “Fine’ he whines into Alexander’s collar. “Fine, but you’re going to have to show me how to use the drill again because I’ve completely forgotten.”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “You’re helpless, aren’t you?” he teases

Jefferson scoffs but squeezes his fingers as well. “Luckily I have you.”

  
  


They don't finish tearing down the set until almost two in the morning. They unfasten every bolt and unscrew every panel until they’re left with nothing but a pile of pieces that give Alexander a true sense of finality as he gazes upon them. Thomas is much more useful for taking down sets then building them. His height and his ridiculous arms make it easy for him to slide platforms up onto shelves. When everything is done, the stage floor swept and the lights all turned off, theater door is  locked behind them. Hamilton’s friend bid him goodnight and head their separate ways, no doubt going home to sleep for the next few day. Not Hamilton though.

It's three in the morning and he’s sitting with Thomas in a tacky vinyl booth in the back of a Denny’s. He’s curled up in the other man’s lap, resting his back against Jefferson’s chest with his head resting in the crook of Jefferson’s neck. His half touched waffles left cold and forgotten on the table. Thomas cards long, gentle fingers through his hair, easing the knots from the unruly strands and ALexander presses closer to him still, nuzzling into his shoulder. This is so much better than fighting him, the immigrant thinks lazily. He would have put aside his pride years ago if he’d known it meant Jefferson would scratch his blunt fingernails along his scalp like he's doing now. 

Thomas hums, a deep sound that Alexander can feel bouncing around in his ribs, and leans over him to press lips to his temple. “Promise me you’ll never cut your hair.” Thomas mutters to him.

Hamilton sighs. “But it gets everywhere and it's so hard to keep clean. Not to mention it's matted and ugly.”

“I think it's stunning.” Jefferson states, dragging his fingers through it slowly. “It’s ninety percent of the reason I’m into you”

“Really?” Alexander asks slyly. Jefferson nods into his neck. “Then I’m going to shave my head.”

To this remark, Thomas whacks him playfully across the shoulder. “Asshole’ he growls into his ear.

Hamilton shudders but offers no counter so they lapse into a serene, peaceful silence. For once, the lack of words doesn’t bother Alexander. Everything they want to say is written in their lingering touches, in the way Thomas sweeps that hair back from his neck to leave a swift kiss to the side of his jaw. Groggily Alexander takes the virginians free hand in his own and twist their fingers together.

“Yes” He breathes sleepily, turning his nose into the circle of Jefferson’s arms.

“Yes what?” he asks.

“Yes I’ll go on a date with you.” Hamilton mutters. His eyes, heavy with exhaustion are already starting to droop.

Thomas laughs and suddenly Hamilton is warm all over. “Alex, we’re already on a date.”

Alexander blinks, looking out over the empty diner before turning to glance up at Thomas through his lashes. The other man is beaming down at him with laughter in the corners of his deep brown eyes. Hamilton shrugs and burrows deeper into his arms, making up from lost time from this morning. “I suppose we are.” he replies. Then “I can’t believe you took me to Denny’s for our first date, you fucking asshat.”

Thomas barks out a sharp laugh. “I’ll take you somewhere real fancy for the next one, hows that sound?”   
“God no.” Alexander retorts. “I’d rather stab my eyes out with pens then go to some stuffy restaurant. Just take me bowling or something, just anything but Denny’s or snooty country clubs.”

“There’s no way to please you, is there?” Jefferson purrs into his hair. 

“You knew that getting into this.” Hamilton scoffs back.

Jefferson drops his hand from Alexander hair and instead drapes it around his waist, while Hamilton takes the hand he’s grasping and pulls it out in front of his face. He starts to lazily  examine each of Thomas’ long digits with great fascination as they lapse back into quite. The gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of Jefferson’s chest against his back as he breathes lulls Alexander further away from consciousness. It’s getting harder and harder to force his eyelids to stay open. After a moment of struggle he just gives in to the sensation of falling and slumps even further into Thomas’ embrace, slotting their fingers together once more.

“I can’t believe it.’ he mumbles into Jefferson’s chest. “But I’m actually glad you did this show.”

Jefferson kiss the top of his head sweetly, just the slightest touch to the crown of his greasy hair. “I can’t believe it, but so am I”

Hamilton sighs in response. “Yeah,,, don’t ever do another one though, you’re impossible to work with.”

“Awwww, but what if I wanna be there to support my stubborn, brash boyfriend?” he whines low against the shell of Alexander’s ear. 

He grunts. “Then sit in the audience like a normal fucking person.”

Jefferson laughs once more, adjusting Hamilton in his lap. “We’ll see.”

  
  
  



End file.
